Wearing a Pirate's Face
by Souplog
Summary: "You know, I thought that if I ever met my long-lost twin sister, we would be doing something more interesting than sitting in her office discussing what she does and doesn't want me doing." Hawke puts down her pen. "Despite the resemblance, I'm not your sister, Isabella." Eventual femslash, in some form or another.
1. Chapter 1

"Boss, a representative from the coterie is here to see you." He sounds nervous.

Hawke doesn't look up from her ledger, carefully dipping her quill into the inkwell. She holds up her sleeve as she writes tine figures for the Red Irons accounts. How did Meeran even have this group running for so long, she wonders, with such lackluster record-keeping?

"Do they have an appointment?"

"Er, no…"

"They don't have an appointment," she says with finality, "kindly ask them to leave"

"Er, I don't think they'll be very receptive to that, ser"

"I don't care whether they're receptive or not. Have them make an appointment. I'm busy"

But of course things don't usually work out to Hawke's convenience. An angry-looking woman pushes Hawke's bumbling underling out of the way as she barges into the office, accompanied by a small cadre of thugs. "We will not be made to wait Serrah Hawke. The coterie does not tolerate this kind of disrespect." The thugs move to surround Hawke's considerable desk.

The Fereldan sighs, removing her glasses and placing them delicately on the mahogany. She rubs her eyes before tiredly looking up at the intruder. "This is highly irregular"

The Coterie representative nods to one of her men. He pushes Hawke's underling out of the door and closes it, locking it from the inside. "We have business to discuss, Serrah Hawke"

Hawke hates how people overuse "Serrah" when they're being rude. "Did you want to hire the Red Irons? If so, this melodrama was not required"

"No, we have business with _you_, specifically." She slams a poster down on Hawke's ledger, effectively smudging the still-drying ink. Some of it bleeds through, though the face staring up at her is no less striking.

"What is this?"

"A picture of a thief sighted interfering with Coterie operations. Look familiar to you?"

Hawke sighs and scrutinizes the poster. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"No joke, serrah. I do not joke"

"Then I don't know what to tell you. I don't know this person"

"Impossible. It is you"

"No, it is not. I do not wear that ridiculous jewelry, nor do I wear a kerchief. My hair is also not nearly that long"

"It is clearly you, woman!"

"It is not"

The Coterie woman slams her fist on the table in anger. After a few seconds, the anger washes visibly from her demeanor, though not without considerable effort on her part. She withdraws her fist, steepling her hands. "Regardless of whether or not you admit it, the Coterie has marked you responsible for the loss of certain acquisitions that we would like returned"

"Fabulous. But I didn't steal from you"

"You misunderstand, serrah. This is not a trial. I am not a judge. I have superiors who have ordered me to exact retribution, and to exact it from you specifically. You can return what you owe now, with a sizeable donation of good will. Or we can simply take what is owed"

Hawke sighs, "How much were these assets worth?"

"Several thousand sovereigns. The good will fee is five-hundred extra. The fee for the disrespect we received at the door," she fixes Hawke with a steely glare, "another five-hundred"

Hawke peels the poster off of her work, grimacing at the ruined page. She taps her finger against the table in a way she feels coveys the right amount of thoughtfulness. Finally coming to a decision, she makes as if to stand up, but one of the thugs, now behind her, clutches her shoulders tight, and shoves her back down into a seated position.

"We can do this the easy way," he rumbles, "or the hard way"

Hawke bristles. As a person, she sits atop a slightly higher horse than most people, and does not suffer indignities. She turns to look at this most recent offender and her eyes narrow into dangerous slits.

"It is a good thing you locked this door," she says, as she launches the man into the wall with her mind. He slides to the floor in a boneless heap. The other thugs move to attack, but find themselves frozen in place, their limbs rendered suddenly uncooperative.

"Let's try this again," says Hawke, standing. In her clenched fist is the blade of one of her letter-openers, gripped so hard that it has drawn blood. It glows faintly in the gloom. "I am a woman of considerable patience," she says, retrieving her glasses and perching them atop her nose in a way she feels is suitably dignified. "But when pushed, I become considerably lessgracious." She reaches out. A staff, previously mounted over the fireplace, flies to her hand. She nears the fallen man and squats to meet his face.

He looks up at her, dazed.

Her placid expression cracks as one of her eyes twitches. Once, twice. Her mouth extends into a disgusted grimace. Her entire face contorts into a rictus of unfathomable rage and she bludgeons the man's head in with the weighted end of the staff.

"Do not!" Smack! "Talk!" Crunch! "To me!" Smash! "About disrespect!" Thwack! Crunch! Bash! Splorch! Squish! Squish! Squish!

She stops herself when she notices the man is dead, and most of his face has been reduced to paste. Panting, she turns to the Coterie representative. She stares into her eyes until her ragged breathing returns to normal. "I am not Meeran. The Red Irons does not have the same relationship it used to with the Coterie. Your presumption offends me." She stares in tense silence, "IT. OFFENDS ME!" An enraged mind-blast has the contents of her desk flying all over the room. Frozen coterie thugs are flung to the ground, along with hundreds of erratically fluttering sheets of paper. All except for the representative, who finds herself, once again, mobile.

She looks back up at Hawke, horrified, though she she has the wherewithal not to completely lose her composure.

"Now leave. The door is unlocked." The representative checks. It is indeed unlocked. She hesitates. "Your men are mine now, leave, or stay forever"

The representative leaves.

Hawke considers making the thugs into blood thralls, but decides she has enough of those lying about already, and instead has the lot of them disintegrated into so much red mist. By design, it is a slow, painful process.

Alone again, Hawke looks at the poster of her doppel-ganger. "Willem!" she calls for her secretary. The impeccably-dressed gentleman enters and studiously ignores the new blood stains decorating every wall of the office.

"Yes madam?"

"I'm leaving for now. Tell my brother to tend to things when he gets back. Until then, you are in charge"

Willem bows, 'Of course, madam"

Hawke considers telling Willem not to call her that. The man really takes too much dramatic license in her employ. A vain part of her decides to let him keep at it. What is life, after all, without a touch of whimsy?

"Have someone collect the blood while I'm away. In glass phylacteries this time, _not_ clay pots."

* * *

"Aveline"

Aveline looks up from her own collection of paperwork, "Good to see you Hawke, though perhaps it would be better if next time we met somewhere more discreet. People would disapprove of me consorting with known crime lords"

Hawkes raises a genuinely confused eyebrow, "I am not a crime lord"

Aveline looks at her, more than underwhelmed. She considers contesting the point, but knows that Hawke, in her own simple way, truly believes that she is innocent of wrongdoing. "Very well, you are no crime lord. People would disapprove either way"

"No-one saw me come in"

"Impossible. There is a crowd outside waiting for an audience with the viscount. I had to shove my way through them on the way to work, it was terrible"

Hawke shrugs

"Even if you didn't go through the crowd, someone would have recognized you with your black clothes, even if you are wearing that silly hood that makes you look like a storybook villain"

"This hood is not silly. I happen to think it looks quite fetching on me. And no one saw me come in because I used magic"

Aveline sighs. Of course, magic. Living with the Hawkes during their initial months in Kirkwall considerably desensitized her to the Elder sibling's questionable overuse of magic, even its more questionable applications. It took some serious adjustment learning to look the other way, knowing the sort of things the girl got up to.

Especially since Aveline is the guard captain.

"Right, well I assume this isn't a friendly visit, so what can I help you with?"

"Every visit with you is a friendly visit Aveline. It…just so happens I have some business as well"

Aveline's gaze reflects the staggering magnitude of how unsurprised she is. "Let's have it"

Hawke hands her the poster. "Do you know who this is?"

"A private bounty. On you apparently"

"That isn't me"

"Looks an awful lot like you"

"Be that as it may"

"I did think it strange that you were wearing jewelry. And makeup. It actually looks pretty good. You should consider accessorizing more often." Aveline reads the charges and makes a low whistle, "The coterie. Whoever your twin is, she pissed off some powerful people"

"I don't have a twin. I have a scoundrel with a passing resemblance to me and I need her restrained"

"I won't have you punishing people willy nilly Hawke, not in this city. Much less 'restraining' them. Whatever that means with you"

"Never to anyone who doesn't deserve it," murmurs Hawke, "and if this one is messing with the Kirkwall underworld then she probably deserves it"

Avline doesn't bother to point out the hypocrisy. "Very well," she sighs, knowing better than to argue. It was like arguing with an eloquent child, after all. "I don't know who this is but I know someone who can point you in the right direction"

* * *

"Is this where I can find," Hawke consults the note Aveline gave her,"Vaw-rick Tethras?"

Corf notches an eyebrow, "You mean Varric? The dwarf?"

Hawke nods, "I suppose so"

Corf nods towards the back of the tavern where Hawke spots a dwarf; his back is turned to her as he gazes at the fire. As she draws closer to him she notices that he is hard at work recording transactions in a sizeable ledger. Her respect for him grows a little; she can always find some respect in her dwindling well for the unappreciated accountants of the world.

Hawke does not hide the sound of her footfalls as she draws close. He turns, relaxing when he spots her.

"Oh, Isabella. I almost didn't recognize…" he trails off, "you're not Isabella"

"Indeed I am not," she pulls up a chair, surreptitiously dusting it off with force magic before taking a seat.

"I'll say. The woman I know isn't nearly so…prim"

Hawke ignores this, "I was told that a Varric Tethras could help me find this person," she shows him the poster. "And it appears you _can_"

"Maybe," he says. Straight to business. Hawke appreciates that in a person. Varric leans in closer, scrutinizing her, "I must say though, the resemblance is uncanny. Are you a relation? Her sister, perhaps? Isabella never mentioned any sisters. Well, she never mentioned family at all but I just assumed…"

"Is Isabella the one in the poster?"

"Do you know her by any other name?"

"No. She is a stranger to me"

"Then I guess you aren't sisters," he rubs his chin thoughtfully, "it really is uncanny though. You even _sound_ like her." A smile materializes as he keeps watching her. "If we are to do business then I need to know who you are"

Hawke nods, "That is fair. My name is Isabelle-"

"Your name is Isabelle?" he interrupts, "I'm getting spooked out now"

She continues, slightly peeved and trying to show it, though not too much. That would be unsightly. "Isabelle Hawke"

"Hawke? You wouldn't happen to be the Hawke who runs the Red Irons would you?"

"That would be me, yes"

"Astounding! I used to have an eye on your career you know. I was going to approach you with a business opportunity but…I guess you aren't hurting enough for money nowadays. It's strange though that I never saw your face until now"

"You were following my career?"

"Indeed. What with your meteoric rise through the ranks, to running the company entirely, not to mention your origins as a Fereldan refugee; the story practically writes itself don't you think?"

Hawke is confused, "Story?"

"Ah. I'm sorry. I get ahead of myself sometimes. While I am indeed a savvy businessman and Kirkwall's resident jack-of-all-trades, I am first and foremost a storyteller. You just happened to interest me both as a business partner, and a subject of a good story"

Hawke is unused to being caught off-guard, and so swiftly moves to bring the conversation back on track. Truth be told, she is fighting down a blush. To be the protagonist of a story like the ones she used to read in Lothering? The possibility appeals to her vanity.

"Er, be that as it may," she coughs, pointing to the poster, "can you help me find this Isabella or not?"

Varric smiles, shaking his head. He knows when someone is preening and trying not to show it. "I don't know where she is Hawke. Though depending on your reasons for finding her, I might be able to point you in the right direction"

Hawke scrutinizes him, dismissing the idea of just plucking the information from his head. Despite herself, she does like him. "Maybe I'm curious. She does look just like me after all," she tries not to show her distaste at admitting those last words.

"Could be. But I know your type Hawke. You don't do things like look for dangerous people just because you're curious"

"Very well. Read the poster. She's wanted by the coterie, and the coterie has been blaming me as of late. I can rebuke their misunderstandings for only so long before they become too much for me to handle"

Varric resumes his thoughtful chin-rubbing, "Isabella is my friend. Do you plan to give her up to them?" His expression lets her know that he'll be able to tell if she's lying.

"No, I simply want to meet her. Advise her to stop making things inconvenient for me"

He looks at her for a long while. "I don't know. I'll need to think about it. Why don't you join me for a drink while I mull things over?" His offer is so congenial that Hawke would feel uncomfortable refusing.

"Very well. I will not be drinking too much though"

The two of them sit down and somehow manage to hit it off. He talks about his businesses in the city and she talks (sparingly) about her own. By the third round of ale they are laughing about how infuriating brothers can be (Hawke doesn't outright laugh though, she sort of amusedly giggles under her breath).

"Let me get the next round, Varric. I would feel uncomfortable being further in your debt"

"If a pretty woman is trying to buy me a drink, what kind of callous bronto would I be to refuse?" She has no idea what a bronto even is, but she chuckles anyway.

As Hawke is walking back to their table, flagons in hand, she pauses in mid step. Uproarious laughter erupt from a nearby table huddled with a gaggle of seven drunks. They are loud enough to jumble her thoughts, and now that she consciously hears them she can't un-hear them. Their merriment is like incessant buzzing at the surface of her eardrum.

In her pocket the letter-opener begins to heat up as a wave of anger flows languidly through her body. With shaking fingers Hawke fantasizes about what it would be like to sink it into each of their loud mouths, watching them scream as it melts through their digestive system, enjoying finally, the reward of silence.

She shudders. What was it father always told her to do in the face of irrational anger? Count to ten. _One, two, three, four…_Hawke's slowly walks back to the table, counting to ten in quiet murmurs. The rage subsides, but the men won't shut up and she knows that if she doesn't get away from the noise then she will do something rash to make her fantasy a reality.

How many of them are there? Seven? Seven realities, seven colons burnt to a crisp.

She deposits both drinks on the table, but makes no motion to sit down. Varric catches her glance back at the loud table, but makes no comment. "I apologize, but I have to go now, Mr. Tethras. It was truly a pleasure making your acquaintance."

"What? You're leaving already?" She hands him her card. "What is this?"

"Business card. For the Red Irons. With my contact information. Let me know if you ever consider me for that partnership you mentioned. It sounds interesting."

"A card huh? That's actually a pretty good idea"

She turns to excuse herself.

"Wait, Hawke!"

"Yes?"

"Hold on a minute. How…how about we go back to my private chambers? We still have a lot to talk about," he notes her hesitancy, "I think I have some information that might help you find that sister of yours"

She feels awkward, not only because she was about to excuse herself but because she suspects Varric knows _why_ she was going to excuse herself. She regards him curiously. So genuinely curious is she that she forgets to look appropriately pensive. Finally she nods, "She isn't my sister but…very well. Lead the way"

He is, after all, the first person in a long time who has made a good first impression. The anger subsides completely, and she follows him to his room.

* * *

Anger is Isabelle Hawke's greatest weakness. Even her best-laid plans can be quite waylaid by her considerable anger problems, though until she starts indiscriminately magic-ing everyone to death, it can at least be somewhat funny to watch.

"How can this hat be worth thirty sovereigns! It has no practical use!"

"It's not about what you can use it for," the clerk desperately pleads, "it's about style"

"That makes no sense!" She slams her fist on the counter, crushing the wood, "What value has style in a life-or-death situation?"

The clerk stifles his own bout of anger. He had just wasted an afternoon explaining the finer points of fashion to someone who lacks the ability to comprehend them. "It has no use whatsoever, it's only supposed to look good"

Hawk scrutinizes him before disgustedly tossing the hat onto his head and retreating back into the shop. The clerk fumes, but doesn't try to kick her out, even if she has been lurking in there for several hours already, creeping the bejeezus out of him. He can't quite summon the guts to ask her to leave. He shivers and prays to the maker that she leave soon.

Hawke peruses.

These things are utterly distasteful, and much too expensive. Who would spend so much money on such nonsensical headwear? It boggles the mind! She would not even be here if Varric's account (and reports from her own agents, verifying those accounts) did not place Isabella in this exact hat shop, at around this time, on this day of the week.

So far her waiting had been fruitless.

Three damn hours in this stupid shop and she had nothing to show for it!

She stops and makes herself count to ten. The anger recedes. She withdraws to a corner of the store to steady her breathing. The store bell rings, signaling that someone has just stepped inside. Isabelle doesn't notice.

"This place has nice hats doesn't it?"

Hawke isn't overly-fond of casual chit-chat, but hearing it in her own voice is disconcerting.

"Uh," she rasps, "yes, it does"

"I come in here a lot, though I've never actually seen another customer"

Hawke is glad she has her hood drawn up. "Um…okay?"

"I'm mostly here to look really, I can't quite afford any of this"

"I wouldn't buy it anyway. I don't see the point in such ridiculous headwear"

The woman with her voice laughs, and Hawke resists the urge to turn and look at her. Seeing her illustrated on a poster is one thing, but to actually verify the resemblance…the temptation is staggering.

"Wow, you're kind of a tightass aren't you?" Hawke can feel her get closer, "If you don't like hats then what are you doing in a hat shop?"

Dramatic timing is something very near and dear to Isabelle Hawke's heart (though she would never admit it), and it is with this in mind that she turns and removes her hood (with suitable flourish). "I'm looking for you," she says in her normal voice. The accent is different but the intonation is the same. The face is the same. The skin-tone is the same.

Hawke's hair is shorter, messier; shooting out in several directions. This, and her black robes, makes a stark contrast between the two women, but the face is unmistakably the same.

The other woman's eyes widen, a foot reflexively moving backwards, but she doesn't flee. Curiosity stills her, and Hawke can see it burning in her eyes.

"Hello. Who are _you_ now?"

* * *

"You know, I thought that if I ever met my long-lost twin sister," Isabella smiles at her own joke, "we would be doing something more interesting than sitting in her office discussing what she does and doesn't want me doing"

Hawke sighs and puts down the pen she had been using to write the contract.

_I should have killed her_, Hawke thinks, _or at least shipped her out of Kirkwall_. If Hawke had known that Isabella was incapable of taking anything seriously, she might have done either of things. But no, she gave in to curiosity, and as a result she has a pouting, buxom pirate in her office making vaguely insulting remarks about her.

"It's amazing," Isabella says, leaning over the desk and ignoring all of Hawke's personal space to cup one of her cheeks, "you look exactly like me"

"Please stop touching me"

Isabella ignores her, poking and prodding with the gusto of a cat fluffing its pillow, "Maybe you _are _my sister. Wouldn't that be something? My mother sold you at an early age to your parents"

"Is that what happened to you?"

This strikes a nerve, as the poking and prodding stops, but it is immediately covered by a veneer of amusement. "Point taken. Let's not get _too _personal just yet." Apparently "personal" does not apply to physical contact as Isabella proceeds to grope Hawke's breasts. Either because the person doing the groping is her doppelganger, or for some other reason, Hawke does not succumb to instinct and blast the woman away. "I guess we're not entirely the same," Isabella croons, giving a tiny squeeze.

Hawke removes the offending hands. "Could you please take this seriously?"

"I _will_ precious! But come on! This is amazing! We should, talk, swap stories!"

"You are making things very difficult for me"

Isabella rolls her eyes. "Okay, fine, I got you into a little trouble with the Coterie. I'll try harder not to get caught next time. There! Business concluded"

Hawke leans back and treats Isabella to an un-amused grimace. "Very well. What did you want to talk about?"

"I don't know, tell me about yourself. You can skip where you're a boring business-woman, I already figured that part out"

Hawke bristles at having her business so trivialized. "Actually I'm the leader of a mercenary group called the Red Irons"

"Ah, that's a lot more exciting than I thought. I'm a pirate captain, if you were wondering"

That gets Hawke's interest, "Really? You have a ship then?"

Isabella frowns, "You have a way of being a wet blanket you know that? No, I don't have a ship anymore"

"So you're a pirate captain without a ship?"

"Er…yes"

"So…"

"Fine! I'm not much of a pirate captain right now! There were extenuating circumstances. Ugh, why am I trying to impress you anyway?"

"What kind of circumstances?"

"The stupid kind." Realization dawns on Isabella's face, "Wait a minute! You," she points at Hawke, "you can help me!"

"What?"

"This is perfect! I have a duel tonight, and I need someone to watch my back. You have the manpower to make sure I'm not ambushed"

"Can you pay me?"

Isabella hesitates, "Er…how much do you charge?" Hawke rights down a figure on a piece of papers and slides it across the desk. Isabella takes one look at it and then slides it back. "I can't pay you. But I'll be very grateful?"

Hawke sighs, "Then I don't think you'll be getting any help from the Irons. But…" and she doesn't even know where the words are coming from, but she says, "I can help you. Personally. I suppose." And as soon as she's said it she wonders what she's thinking.

"You? No offense, but what help could you be?"

Hours later Hawke is wading hip-deep in the blood of the Hightown ambushers, freezing enemies and pulverizing them into dust with force magic. On this particular expedition she has brought her impromptu apprentice, a Dalish outcast named Merrill. By virtue of her own use of blood magic, Merill came to be under Hawke's wing after a brief foray into Sundermount, and since then had harried the older mage until she agreed to teach her about the finer points of blood magic.

Currently, Merril is doing a respectable job shooting rock and electricity to pick off ranged opponents. Isabella, on the other hand, flits in and out of battle to stab enemies in the back, moving on before being targeted. _In an ideal world_, thinks Hawke, _we would have Carver with us to soak up damage_, but he is away on assignment and couldn't make it.

So the job falls to Hawke, though barriers and rock armor can keep her protected from a hail of swords and arrows for only so long. It isn't until a swordsman almost impales her that Hawke thinks to herself, _fuck it_, and decides to drop the pretense and go straight into the blood magic.

She squeezes attackers from the inside and reduces them into puddles of sizzling fat and entrails. The remaining attackers turn tail to run, but she catches them in a gravity well, yanking them into a miasma of raging death hemorrhages.

Merill moves to Hawke's side, making sure she is alright.

"Where did you cut this time?"

"Stop fussing, I didn't use my blood"

"But you're hurt aren't you? Oh creators, an arrow! I can't believe I didn't stop that in time, I'm so sorry!"

Hawke pulls out the arrow, grimacing at the pain but otherwise makes no sound. "It's alright, let me just…" healing spells aren't her forte, and so she needs to down an entire bottle of lyrium to muster the energy to cast one. "Ah…there we go"

"I'm really very sorry!"

"Stop apologizing Merrill. It gets annoying after a while"

Merrill is visibly mortified, "I'm sorry"

Hawke musses the elf's hair in reassurance. "Don't worry about it. You did well Merrill"

Isabella appears at her side, looking impressed, "And to think I questioned your capabilities. That'll teach me to make snap judgments about a pretty face," Isabella cackles, "and yours is a very pretty face indeed."

Hawke rolls her eyes while Merrill simply looks amazed. Meeting Isabella had caught her off guard ("I didn't know you had a sister! I mean, you know, a live one…oh…Oh! By the dread wolf! I didn't mean to…I'm so, so sorry!"), and she still hasn't been able to stop staring.

The surrounding Hightown courtyard is strewn with charred and boiling remains, and Hawke instructs Merrill to dissolve them. There's no need for the Templars to get caught up in another tizzy looking for blood mages in Kirkwall, not like the last time Hawke got careless. Body disposal was one of the first things Hawke made sure to teach Merrill after that. The rest of the bodies, the ones killed more or less ordinarily, they can be left for the guard to find.

"Where is this man of yours Isabella?"

"All business you are. Maddening." But Isabella smiles anyway, "Regardless, I think I like you, blood magic and all"

Hawke quirks an eyebrow.

"That _was_ blood magic right? I haven't seen it before, so I'm only guessing"

"…It is"

Isabella quirks her own eyebrow, and shrugs. She holds up a note she looted from one of the bodies. "Hayder's in the chantry, no doubt with more of his lackeys. Should be interesting. You think your beautiful skin will burst into flames when you step inside?"

"You think so Hawke?" asks Merrill, "That wouldn't be very good for your complexion would it? Or your health for that matter"

"It's not true Merrill," Hawke reassures her. She nods to Isabella, "Let's get this over with"

* * *

"Isabella," Hayder drawls, "you were supposed to come alone"

"And you were supposed to _be_ alone, but both of us knew that wasn't going to happen"

The two of them sneer in the way sketchy people do when they live up to each other's expectations. Hawke, knowing this is going to end in violence but unsure of when, taps her foot impatiently, her hood drawn up to avoid confusion.

"Where's the relic?"

"I lost it. Castillon's just going to have to do without"

"Lost it? Like you lost a ship full of valuable cargo?"

"They weren't cargo Hayder, they were people!"

Hawke listens with interest.

"Who's this then?" Hayder asks, nodding towards Hawke. "I don't know what Isabella has been telling you stranger, but she's in trouble for stealing from some powerful people. You don't want to be involved in her, trust me. She'll backstab you for your trouble"

"Don't listen to him, Hawke"

"Just leave now sweetheart, and I won't have to run my dagger down your throat"

Hayder, no surprise, is a dickbag. And when Hawke is around dickbags she gets really angry. Especially when they make vague allusions to rape. Just as Isabella flings her dagger into a lackey's chest, Hawke uses force magic to bodily shove Castillon against the shrine behind him. Letting her anger go full-froth, she makes short work of a pair of grunts, boiling the blood in their veins. Immediately she becomes the center of attention, and she has to go on the defensive, summoning a barrier and a layer of rock armor.

Isabella stabs and maneuvers her way through the mob as they concentrate their attacks on the struggling Hawke, while Merrill capitalizes on the distraction to summon lightning storms beneath the chantry ceiling.

Pressure lessened, Hawke is able to make a push against the attackers with a mind blast before summoning a nearby corpse with force magic, pulling it headfirst into her waiting hands. Between her palms, the body dissolves into a mess of blood that instantly turns into a writhing mass of tentacles that whips and dismembers any attackers foolish enough to remain close to her.

As Castillon struggles to get up, Hawke smashes his knee out from under him. He hobbles away, cursing under his breath, and Hawke hits him again, and again, and again, and again, until Isabella finally has to place a hand on her shoulder to get him to stop.

"He's dead, Hawke"

Panting, Hawke takes note. "So he is," and she leans, exhausted, against Isabella, who supports her with both arms. "Merrill, the bodies"

"Oh! Right"

As the elf goes about dissolving the bodies, collecting what blood she can in stoppered vials.

"You have a bit of an anger problem don't you?"

"Yes"

"I like it. Makes you human. More relatable." Hawke puzzles over what a curious thing to say that is. "You certainly made this easier on me Hawke. Thanks"

"Next time you can book a raiding party. Only 1000 sovereigns"

"I think I'd rather book you, beautiful"

"Ugh," Hawke pushes her away.

Merrill hops over, "Hawke, I'm done with the bodies!"

The edge of Hawke's mouth quirks upwards in a smile, satisfied with the apparent absence of mangled bodies. "Good girl," she shifts to let Merrill support her weight, "let's get out of here. I assume our business is concluded, Isabella?"

"That it is. I'll see you around Hawke. If you ever need me for anything, I have a room at the Hanged Man," and because the proposition at the tip of her tongue seems a little self-serving, Isabella just smiles and walks away.

"Who is she?" Merrill asks as they walk out into the cool of the Hightown night.

"I don't know. But I'll be keeping an eye on her"


	2. Chapter 2

Not all of Hawke's financial success stems from blood magic; she has a significant supply of business acumen, and she knows how to use it, sometimes spreading her influence to degrees that shock even her. In this case it was tapping into the oft-ignored resource that was the elves of the Kirkwall alienage. No-one was willing to hire them for anything beyond the most demeaning of tasks, and those that refused such labor often had to resort to illegal means of subsistence.

This is how Hawke met Athenril, a local thief turned-gang leader who operated under the Coterie's radar while hauling a significant take with her own illicit activities. She proved an able resource for the budding influence of Hawke's own Red Irons, and under Red Iron protection gladly allowed Hawke to whet her beak from their monthly take. By proxy, her protection extended to the Alienage itself, which to Hawke's surprise allowed for a surprisingly willing font of recruits and business contacts.

In the Alienage, Hawke was already godmother to three children; a respected member of a community she didn't even rightly belong to. And so it was that Hawke's impromptu apprentice Merrill, a Dalish elf and thus by all respects an outsider, was paid equal respect. Over time this respect, which was afforded her by proxy, became genuine as she proved herself a strong pillar of the community. For the outcast, it is almost sickeningly heart-rending how the warmth of this new family reminds her so much of her last.

For now however, she sits and she breathes.

"Relax, Merrill, focus on your breathing." Hawke's voice is a soothing melody in the din of her hut, the wood of the floorboards creaking softly as the woman slowly paces upon them.

"I am focused Hawke"

"Sssshhh…no talking, Merrill"

"Oh! Sorry"

"Merrill…"

Flustered, Merrill shuts up.

"Good girl. I want you to feel your pulse. No, not with your hand, but with your whole body. Do you feel it?"

Merill shakes her head, no.

Hawke sighs, and positions herself behind her, cupping her hands over the elf's temples. Her hands are soft, and Merrill's breath catches slightly at the proximity. She cannot help imagining those hands pressing elsewhere. "Do you feel it now?" Shepard whispers. Merrill immediately nods, hoping that Hawke cannot see the blush blazing all over her face, hoping that it doesn't show on her neck. Her pulse races in her temples, in her wrists, and strangely, in her feet as well.

"Good. Focus on your pulse, the blood pumping throughout your body. This is the melody of life, Merrill"

The praise quickens her heartbeat still further, and she feels disappointed when the hands leave her face.

"Now," Hawke says, and Merrill can feel her settling down in front of her. She takes Merrill's hands and makes them hold her own wrists, pressing the elf's thumbs to her veins. "I want you to feel _my_ pulse." It is an intimacy Merrill is guilty of enjoying too much, spreading her awareness to the flow of lifeblood in her teacher's body. "Can you feel it Merrill"

Merrill breathes, "Yes"

"Hush, no talking. Now, focusing on both my pulse and yours, I'm going to make an incision on your thigh." Oh creators, Hawke has to be doing this intentionally. "I want you to stem the bleeding, without losing focus. This is to help you practice for the use of blood as a magical fuel, without overindulging in it. Can you do this?"

Merrill sighs, "Yes"

Hawke is silent for a while before withdrawing, "Never mind, we're done for now"

"What?" Squawks Merrill, opening her eyes.

"You aren't concentrating, Merrill"

"I…I was!"

"No, you weren't. If you can't follow a simple instruction like "don't talk" how can I expect you to stop your own bleeding?"

_The only reason I couldn't concentrate is because of you!_ Merrill wants to shout, but can't because to do so would betray her feelings. "But you were asking me questions!"

"I was testing you"

Merrill's eyes widen and she grumbles in place.

Hawke sighs, "In any case, you were doing well up until then"

"Really?" Praise from Hawke is a balm to be savored with each grudging admittance. "Do you think so?"

"I'm surprised you figured out as much as you have on your own"

"I wasn't entirely alone, I had the spirit to help me at first"

Hawke seems to freeze for a moment, before leaving the room to fetch a glass of water. The sound of the water draining from the tank echoes from the kitchen, and Hawke brings two glasses back, handing one to Merrill. She takes a long drink of her own water. "Right, about that…spirit. I've been meaning to talk to you about him"

Merrill immediately goes on the defensive. She is tired of people lecturing her about her choices. "Why? What about?" She asks, sharply.

Hawke holds up her hands, "I know this isn't what you want to hear, but you have to be careful about the types of spirits you consort with"

"You don't have to worry about me dropping my guard"

"I know, but just to be sure, I'd like-"

"I'm not a child Hawke! I can take care of myself"

"Those are the first words from every child's lips," Hawke says softly. It sounds too much like condescension for Merrill to back down now.

Hurt and angered, Merrill turns away, "I think you should leave"

"Maybe," Hawke sounds properly remorseful, and Merrill grows angry at herself because she always forgives Hawke too easily, "maybe if I told you about _my_ spirit first…would that be okay?"

Fascination pokes its way from behind Merrill's wall of stubbornness; this is a subject Hawke had _never_ discussed before, something Merrill had wanted to know about ever since she first witnessed Hawke harness blood magic on Sundermount. But Merrill is too offended, and she says nothing, hating herself for every second she wastes not drawing Hawke's further attention, hating Hawke for having this effect on her.

Hawke sighs, "I apologize Merrill, I did not mean to offend you." Merrill is silent, "I will see you tomorrow." She closes the door quietly behind her.

* * *

Merrill's ire hurts more than Hawke is willing to express, but the use of blood magic has a way of unbalancing one's psyche, especially when it is granted by a demon. No-one knows this better than Hawke, with her already substantially skewed anger issues. But the talk with Merrill will have to wait for another time, she supposes.

The elves nod respectfully as Hawke walks out of the Alienage into Lowtown proper, muttering garbled Dalish phrases that roughly translate to "Godmother." It is a strange title, but it feels appropriate for her growing spheres of influence. While she's in the neighborhood she decides to take care of a few errands; meeting with some of Athenril's contacts and making sure that they are well-supplied, writing a private message for Aveline and giving it to a guard.

Running a business is busy work. Thus reminded, Hawke decides to stop at the Hanged Man to see if Varric is in. Already he has pointed her in the direction of several trade interests, not least of which is a partnership in funding an expedition into the deep roads.

Sadly, Varric is not there. Even more sadly…

"Hawke!" It's too lte to pretend that she doesn't see her.

The pirate turns heads as she passes, and one man even grins lecherously when she draws closer to Hawke, assuming that they are twins. Always with the fascination with twins. Hawke gives him a scathing look and he turns swiftly away. It doesn't hurt, having a reputation.

"Good to see you! I almost thought you wouldn't take me up on my offer"

"I'm not. I only came around to see Varric"

"Oh. Well that's disappointing. I was beginning to feel neglected"

Seeing as how her new Dwarf friend isn't around, Hawke turns around and leaves. She is annoyed, but not very surprised to find herself being followed.

"Yes?" She sighs.

"What? Can't I hang around with my new friend?"

"I'm not your friend"

"Why not? I'm already friends with your friends. Why, I'm friends with Varric, I'm friends with Merrill-"

"You're friends with Merrill?"

"Indeed I am. She's so cute, like a kitten. I think that's what I'll call her from now on, "kitten""

Hawke feels a headache coming on.

"You know I have a nickname for you too"

Against her better judgement Hawke asks what it is.

"Gorgeous!"

She cackles and Hawke pushes her lightly away, doing absolutely nothing to deter her. Even worse the woman seems to have interpreted it as grudging affection.

Isabella calms down and lets the silence extend between them. It is not uncomfortable. "You know," she says, dashing Hawke's hopes for a peaceful walk home, "you upset her pretty good earlier. Merrill, I mean"

"How do you know about that? It's only been like two hours"

"Aw, look at you being all brusque when really you want to ask me all about it. Anyway, two hours is plenty of time for a girl to get things off her chest. You should try it sometime actually; it might help remove that stick from your delicious ass." Isabella fans herself, "Whew, all this talk of chests and ass has me all flustered"

"You're going to follow me home aren't you?"

"Yes. Probably"

Hawke grumbles under her breath. Finally: "Okay fine, what did Merrill tell you?"

* * *

The Hawke household is one of the less-attractive buildings in Hightown. Not nice enough for a noble family, but certainly not crummy enough for a family of refugees one year off the boat. Really it's an oversized box, rough-hewn shale and rock, but it is a handsome box to be sure. It, like the many houses surrounding it, is intended for Dwarven habitation, and indeed Carver and Hawke have to stoop just a bit when walking through the copper-rimmed doorways.

But it is the best place for them, not least because Dwarves in Kirkwall tend to gravitate towards organized crime. Making nice with the neighbors means the Red Irons have a cordial relationship with the Carta, if not a shaky alliance.

A pair of cloaked Carta dwarves nod to Carver Hawke as he makes his way back from the market, a hefty basket clutched under his arm. One of the dwarves mockingly asks him if he needs help, and Carver responds with a racial epithet that would have most humans gutted on the spot. The dwarves just laugh and ask him if he's up for a drink later. "Sorry," he says, "just got back from an assignment and I have to report in with my boss"

"You mean your sister"

"Yes, fine, my sister"

They laugh even more, but Carver has more sense that to be resentful. One hour in front of the books and he was begging his sister to please never let him near a position of real authority again. Chief grunt suits him just fine, paperwork can stay in the bowels of hell where it belongs.

Awkwardly wedging the basket between his thigh and bicep he negotiates the key into the lock, cursing as he jostles it up, down and to the side for the ridiculous construct of the Dwarven lock. Finally t opens with a series of clicks and whirls. Carver mutters curses under his breath as he has to yank the key out of the lock.

"Mother? Isabelle? Are you home?" The lighting system is on, a series of gas-fed lamps that connect to brass spark-switches in the shape of charging brontos, which means that someone must be home. Shrugging, Carver dumps the basket on the floor; through the wicker, the contents elicit a dull thud against the stone. The week-long mission had taken a lot out of him: he would pick that shit up later. Now: sleep.

Carver shuffles his way up the stairs, kicking his toe against the top step. He cringes in pain, and walks even more determinedly towards his room. He slows his steps to soften his footfalls as he passes by the great mahogany doors to his sister's office. Voices are emanating from there which means she's n another one of her god-awful meetings. He had finally gotten her to stop roping him into those, but if she caught him all raggedy in front of a client then she and him would have words, and if anything can ruin Carver's day it is being lectured by his sister.

However, as he passes the door, he notices something strange. Rather than the monotonous droll of two people talking over contracts and plans, the only voice coming from inside the room is his sister's. She's talking to herself.

"I need your help retrieving the artifact"

"What is it?"

"It's…I'm not sure what it is"

"I know that you're lying"

"What!? Preposterous!"

"If you want my help just tell me"

Maker, she's finally gone insane hasn't she? Well, it's not like this is entirely unexpected is it? She already had those anger problems, and the blood magic probably wasn't doing her any favors, mentally. _Great, now I'm in charge_, thinks Carver, half joking to himself, half-serious, all nervous.

Still it wouldn't hurt to verify. He opens the doors, already asking, "Talking to yourself, sister?" in a way that is not entirely joking, though not entirely indicative of how nervous he truly is.

The sight that greets him is even more alarming, if not confusing, than he feared the situation to already be.

Seated across from his sister is…his sister.

"It is good to see you Carver, and no, as you can see I am not talking to myself"

He gapes, unable to find words.

"Who do we have here?" Comes the sultry voice of his sister from the mouth of the person who is not his sister. That his sister's voice could even _be_ sultry makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

* * *

Carver doesn't understand why his sister keeps Isabella around. He doesn't even think that SHE understands why she keeps Isabella around. But the pirate shows up more and more in his sister's party, on those assignments she trusts no-one but herself or Carver with. Today's mission has them tracking down (oh the irony!) blood mages, and for all things at the behest of a Templar named Cullen.

It's the usual spiel, with more investigatory work than he thinks is worth and his sister throwing her weight around like she owns the place. Carver should be comfortable, picking his nose at the back of the group so that no-one notices while Isabelle deals with the talking. But not today, today _Isabella_ is here, and Carver cannot stop being distracted by her, _and she knows it_. It's not that he's just a little weirded out by a sexed-up version of his sister, it's that he is **very much** balls-to-the-wall weirded out by a sexed-up version of his sister. It does not help that she smiles at him suggestively, or hugs his arm whenever they talk, pressing her bosom against his side…

The first time she does it he actually screams as he yanks back his arm, as if it were scalded. Everyone in the market turned to look at him. Hawke is impassive, Isabella is openly laughing, and Merrill seems understanding. Carver blushes red and tromps ever onward.

Does she wear _anything_ under that sash? Does her cleavage _have_ to be so very much…on display? Need those thigh-high boots accentuate the fact that her thighs are very much bare? And _again_, is she wearing _anything_ under there?! And the strutting! Oh Maker, the strutting! Those hips move sinuously from side to side like the shoulders of a panther, though her buttocks boldly jut with the firm roundness of a supple Coast Melon. It is a very nice buttocks, and with his mind panicking so, he notices that his sister has the exact same proportions.

So every time he sees Isabella, stares at Isabella, ogles at Isabella; invariably, he sees…his sister. He punches a hardwood door so hard that he makes a dent, splinters digging into his skin. The pain is gratifying, if only because they distract him so. Carver finds himself looking forward to his next field assignment, miserable nights in the rain be damned.

Carver seems distracted. Perhaps that excursion into the Wounded Coast was more taxing than he is letting on. Hawke resolves to keep him close for the next few days. He is a welcome help, even if his impatience can be grating in the middle of investigations. Currently she is interrogating the whore Idunna in the Blooming Rose.

The stink of blood magic is all over her, and Hawke is not surprised when Isabella suggests leaving the girl alone. The strength of her will is strong enough to sway Isabella's sense, though it is a clumsy sort of strength, and Hawke resists it easily.

"You are trying to make me stab myself," Hawke says. The girl's eyes widen. "It will not work"

The will grows stronger, larger; filling the room with its presence. But it is still clumsy, gripping at Hawke's resolve with a million fingers, each too weak to establish a grip. She closes the distance between them, feeling the girl's fear grow with each step.

"Hawke!" She hears behind her, and she turns to see Merrill actively resisting the effects of the magic, gripping her head in her hands. Carver is…punching a door? The mage must have gotten to him too.

"Stay back!" Idunna demands, "I _will_ kill them, I-"

Hawke exerts her own will, stuffing the magic back into Idunna's body until she is bloated with tainted mana, the sudden influx manifesting as foam and spittle, eye's rolling into the back of her head. With a backhand the girl is sent hemorrhaging onto the floor. The impact of cheekbones against knuckles vaguely stings, and as she shakes her wrist in pain Hawke resolves to wear gloves in the future. Or gauntlets.

A quick interrogation reveals that Idunna has been creating abominations with the liberal application of blood magic as an STD. It's genius really, and it has Hawke musing on the unconsidered applications of the craft before stowing away the information and having Aveline send Idunna off to the circle. Patting a sheepish Isabella on the shoulder, she turns to leave. Carver looks anywhere but at her. He spares a quick glance in her direction, and Hawke raises an eyebrow. His eyes dart immediately away as if he's seen a ghost.

"Are you okay Merrill?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she says a little testily. Hawke decides not to push it.

"Carver?"

"Yes. Fine! I'm fine! I wasn't look at you!"

Sometimes the world isn't worth the trouble she goes to understand it. In any case, time for a visit to Darktown.

But Darktown is _dark,_ and it smells awful, and Hawke hates going there. She drags her feet, trying to look as dignified as possible while doing so. Really, maybe she should just sit tight for a while. The Blooming Rose is so much nicer, even with all the whores and that smell of perfume and cum that doesn't smell awful so much as weird. And _so_ many customers.

So…many…customers.

Inspiration strikes her like a lightning bolt.

"Viveka?"

"Yes, Serrah?"

"Can I talk to the manager?"

Viveka rolls her eyes at the formality, but ushers her nonetheless to Madam Lusine's office, a gaudy show of uncoordinated opulence that sets Hawke's teeth on edge. "What are we still doing here sister?" Carver asks, uncomfortable by the familiarity of some of some of his favorite whores. He knows his sister is probably aware of his activities here, but it is still disconcerting having her around.

"I know," Isabella says, wiggling her eyebrows.

"What?"

"Isabelle Hawke is trying to establish a foothold in the sex trade"

"Really, sister? Like buying a mine wasn't enough for you?"

"Both of you shut up," Hawke says as the office door opens.

Madam Lusine is exactly what Hawke needs her to be; a business-savvy pimp with a partner whose organization plucks too much profits from the Rose's coffers. With a few nudges of magic-induced suggestion, Lusine is airing her woes like a drunken divorcée.

"It's true. Thanks to Harlan the Coterie takes more Sovereigns from the Rose than we can actually afford"

"How terrible for you." The sympathy in Hawke's voice is a practiced honey sweet. She can feel Carver rolling his eyes by the door. Isabella just smiles.

"Yes, we can barely afford to pay the girls enough to keep them fed, and oh! The bouncers. Straight from the Coterie they are, lazy bunch of louts who think they're entitled to free samples"

"Disgusting,' says Isabella.

"But what can I do? The Coterie has a stranglehold on my business," she sighs dramatically, "they keep me open"

Hawke steeples her fingers, fixing Lusine with the most no-nonsense stare she can manage. "And if that could be changed?" Her eyes twinkle with shrewd energy.

"What are you implying, Serrah Hake?"

A heavy silence settles in the room, and Hawke puts on her most charming smile, an expression on her that she doesn't realize is more intimidating than anything else. Cue the sales pitch.

"I'm implying you could do better without the Coterie weighing you down. The Rose, I have found, is very much like a woman," Isabella snickers at the comparison, "you can't treat it too roughly or else it won't live up to its potential, and the Rose has so much more potential than what I've seen"

"What do you mean?"

Political contacts, opportunities for blackmail; Hawke doesn't say these things but that doesn't make her intentions any less impure. "I've seen wasted opportunities, untapped markets, and a chance for a higher quality product with less unnecessary expenditures . What I'm implying, Madame Lusine, is that you can make a lot more money," she lets the suggestion sink in, "_IF_, you sever your contract with Harlan and make me your partner"

"You are being…very direct, Serrah." Hawke suspects that Madam Lusine is more often than not charmed into doing the Coterie's bidding, when she isn't being plied veiled threats.

"I find that direct is the best way to do business"

Lusine looks overwhelmed, hopeful. Hawke can feel her heartbeat race with excitement, though it is tempered by the stale taste of hesitation. "But…how do I know you would you be better than the Coterie? How do I know if you can compete with them? If I do this and you fail to protect me from the Coterie, then…they'll kill me." Lusine narrows her eyes, "Who are you to be suggesting these things anyway?"

Hawke withholds a sigh; it looks like this sale is going to take a while. Before she can say anything though, Isabella speaks up.

"What my sister is trying to say," and Isabella winks at Hawke's glower, "is that the Coterie are a bunch of thugs who pretend to be businessmen. We, on the other hand, are businesswomen who can be thugs if we need to," she punctuates her point with a fancy twirling of her daggers. She proceeds to detail some of the plans she has for the Rose, plans that Hawke can only assume she is pulling out of her ass.

"You know what you're talking about. You run the organization jointly?" Lusine brightens at the prospect.

Isabella and Lusine stare at Hawke, who hunches her shoulders and says, "Apparently," though gritted teeth.

Lusine looks thoughtful, "I will give your proposal some thought," she says. "How can I contact you?"

Isabella claps Hawke on the shoulder.

* * *

"What the hell was that?" Hawke demands as they make their way to Darktown.

Isabella laughs, "Seriously Hawke? She never would have handed half of her business to _you_"

"And she would to you?"

"Of course not. But that's why we make a perfect team! I can be the pimp and you can manage the finances. Oh, I never thought of it like that until just now. You think I should buy a new hat?"

"We're not partners Isabella"

"Fine, be a spoilsport. But you'd better pretend we are if you want to do business with Lusine"

"Argh," she has her there, "fine. You can be my partner in name, but if you mess this up for me then you're out"

"It looks like I'm going to be making you lot of money Hawke. Maybe in exchange you could help me find my relic?"

Hawke glowers at her. "What do you even know about doing business?"

"Not much," she admits, "but what do you know about wresting control from large criminal organizations? Harlan won't let go of the Rose without a fight"

"She's right sister," speaks up Carver, "Harlan is tough, and powerful. He heads all of the Coterie's prostitution operations in Kirkwall"

Hawke is irked at being given pointers on how to run her own syndicate. "I have a plan, don't worry about it"

"Care to run it by me first?" Isabella asks, "What with my being your partner and all"

"No"

"Aww, are you pouting? You are! That is too adorable! Come on, let big sister to teach you about how to assassinate people. Why I've been an expert ever since my divorce"

Hawke gives her a _Look_, and speeds her pace to catch up with Merrill, who takes notice but pretends like she doesn't.

"Merrill"

"Hawke"

"Are you still angry at me?"

Merrill deflates, "No. Yes"

"I am sorry if I offended you earlier," she says in a small voice.

"Are you really sorry," Merrill replies, her eyes fixed down on the dusty Lowtown tile, "or are you just apologizing so I won't be mad at you anymore?"

"Can't I do both?"

Merrill shakes her head, "You really are hopeless aren't you? Sometimes I think I'm terribly awkward when I'm talking with others, but you are like a child, even if you hide behind your…formalities"

"I do have feelings Merrill"

Merrill finally looks at her, giving her a weak smile, "I know. And I'm glad you let me see them"

Hawke doesn't know how to reply, nor does she know exactly if she's forgiven or not, but the awkwardness is preferable to Isabella's snark, so she doesn't change her pace. She decides to wait through the silence, and at the edge of her vision she notices Isabella giving her a thumbs-up. She quickly turns her head away.

"When I met you Hawke," Merrill says, "when I saw that you were a blood mage, I was scared. I thought you might be everything Marethari warned me I would become. But you weren't. You were calm and collected, and true you do get very angry sometimes and you can be very frightening, but for the most part you are a wonderful person. And it hurts when you doubt me, like Marethari did"

"I only act out of concern for you"

"I know. So did she"

"I don't…" Hawkes struggles for words, "It seems I can never say the right thing with you. You know that I'm not good at connecting with others, and I can't guarantee that I won't make you mad at me again. But even though I am your teacher. I like to think I let you get away with more than Marethari did. That doesn't mean I can't keep an eye out for you every now and then, does it?"

Before Merrill can respond, Carver announces that they have arrived at the top of the stairs leading to Darktown, and all personal matters are put to the side in favor of watching each other's backs. Still, the smile Merrill gives her is reassuring.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sorry Hawke. While managing your brothel _would_ cater to my ego, I don't think I have it in me to be a pimp. Besides, Isabella's business plan is actually pretty sound. Have you read it? I still can't believe she wrote one up for you"

Hawke raises an eyebrow at the crude portfolio on her desk, a construction of recycled wanted posters and twine. On the cover is written "Hawke's Sex Strategy," intentionally written in loopy crayon. In the corner is a bad drawing of Hawke (or is that Isabella?) wearing a giant purple hat with a feather in it.

"I…perused it"

"What did you think?"

"It's…good," she says, tone disbelieving even in the face of indisputable evidence, "I guess you learn more about management on a pirate ship, maybe?"

Varric drinks from his flagon, "So what's the problem?"

"Honestly? I don't trust her"

He chuckles, "Probably a good policy. But she won't steer you wrong if there's nothing to gain from it. And I don't see much room for ruining your business in her grand agenda"

"You mean the relic"

"Exactly"

"Has she told you what it is?"

"No. She's been maddeningly vague on the subject"

"Hmm"

"In the end, Hawke, does it matter? She needs your help, and she's proven herself useful." He fixes her with a shrewd look, "Times are interesting in Kirkwall, and I have a feeling it's only going to get worse. Expanding your organization is admirable, but dangerous. Isabella knows what she's doing. She can make this gamble less risky, and it's not like it'll cost you much. Just a little manpower"

Hawke ponders her drink, swishing it I agitation. She looks at Varric a moment before shaking her head and taking a drink, "Dammit." Varric laughs at the grudging admittance. The mage narrows her eyes at him in exasperation, "She talked to you didn't she? To win me over"

"I admit to nothing"

She scoffs, "I can't believe you…"

"Oh come on, you know you'll need her"

Will she? Perhaps. Hawke has her reservations about seizing her share of Kirkwall's prostitution rings. She had no qualms when the idea hit her in the Blooming Rose, but Isabella's business plan slid home the reality of it: like Aveline keeps telling her time and again, maybe she is becoming a crime lord.

Is it the blood magic? The influence of the demon? Hawke prides herself on rigid self-control, to the point that pride ceases to factor into the equation, but perhaps this is a bit too much. Taking down criminal organizations is all well and good, but Hawke hadn't considered that she was perhaps taking steps to take their place.

"Fine, I'll talk to Isabella"

Varric smiles, "She's already on her way"

"Wait, what?"

Her train of thought is interrupted by her mother gliding into the office, brandishing a tray. Cookies and curious brown crisps jostle gently in their bowls. "I brought snacks!" she announces.

Hawke immediately scrambles to cover up the documents and drafts littered across her desk, each one a cog in her plan to seize the Blooming Rose. Leandra sets down the tray and picks up Isabella's portfolio, perusing it with a faint smile while Hawke sheepishly sinks back into her chair and wonders how in the hell she missed that.

"You don't have to hide these dear," she says, "I may not like what you get up to, but I trust you maintain some semblance of a moral compass." She flips a few more pages, "Though I must admit, _this_ is a little far-fetched, even for you"

"Madame, are these crisped nug bits?" Varric asks, gingerly plucking a chip from one of the bowls on the tray.

"Indeed they are! I thought you might enjoy them. I got them at the stall down the street"

"You are an exquisite hostess madame,"he says, plopping a handful in his mouth. Hawke cringes at the poor show of etiquette in front of her mother, though the dwarf seems to handle the mouthful like a champ.

"Oh I do try, unlike my daughter here who replaces good hospitality with a wine-rack in her office." Leandra and Varric laugh good-naturedly.

"Mother…"

"No worries, Lady Leandra. I found the wine rack to be quite delightful"

"Well that's good. Isabelle needs more friends like you"

"Would you two please," Hawke pleads, "stop flirting?"

"I'm sorry dear," Leandra laughs, pinching her daughter's cheek. Holding up the portfolio, she points to the "by Isabella" scrawled on the bottom of the cover, "When do I get to meet this business partner of yours anyway? Carver complains about her constantly"

Hawke sighs, "I don't think that would be a good idea mother"

"Whyever not?"

Hawke's hands gnarl in frustration, "Just…it's not, okay? She's a shady character, that's why"

"I daresay that you're a shady character yourself nowadays." Everyone turns to regard Isabella who is leaning against the doorframe. Hawke curses that woman's damnable ability to sneak up on her. "Hello! You must be Isabelle's mother! My name is Isabella." She does a little mock curtsy.

"Oh my," says Leandra, drawing closer, leaning from side to side to scrutinize Isabella from as many angles as possible. Isabella looks amused, and steps forward to oblige her.

"Isabelle," she says excitedly, "she looks…"

"Exactly like me, yes, I know. Let's move past it"

"This is extraordinary. Wait, this isn't some magic thing is it? One of your experiments or…?"

"No, mother"

"I am 100% genuine," croons Isabella, posing. Leandra smiles in amusement. She pokes her prods her, and eventually Isabella's cavalier vanity dwindles into vague discomfort.

"Well, you certainly don't act like my daughter. But you look enough like her for me to be scandalized by your state of dress. On the other hand, Isabelle doesn't try to look feminine at all so…"

"Mother…"

"Maybe you could give her some fashion tips sometime…"

"Mother!"

Leandra smiles, "But still…your names, your appearance; it's a remarkable coincidence." She shakes her head, "Pardon me; I'm getting in the way of your meeting. Can I get you anything?" She asks Isabella with no small amount of warmth, which catches the pirate off guard.

"No, er, I'm fine. Thanks." Leandra promptly dismisses herself. "Your mother's…nice. I like her, except for the poking and prodding"

"You poke and prod me all the time," Hawke grumbles.

"Yes, but only because I'm entitled to your body love"

"Excuse me!?"

"Relax. I mean, your body isn't anything I haven't felt before. You know, on myself," she looks thoughtful, "though this does bring a line of inquiry I haven't considered before…"

"I'm not having sex with you"

Isabella smiles, "You don't know that was what I was going to say"

"Fine, what _were_ you going to say?"

Isabella cocks her head to the side, ignoring her. "Tell me Hawke, _have _you ever had sex with a woman?"

Hawke says nothing, sticking Isabella with her most displeased stare.

"Have you ever had sex at all?"

More displeased stare.

"That's no fun. Now you actually _are_ like a sister, being all prudish and annoyed." Isabella brightens; "Seeing as how we're so close now…" she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

Hawke grimaces at Varric who averts his gaze, swishing the ale in his flagon as if it were a glass of wine. "Fine, yes," Hawke says, "if you help me run the Blooming Rose, I'll get started on finding your relic"

Isabella squeals and rushes to hug her lookalike, straddling her in her armchair, planting kisses on her cheeks. "Oh thank you, thank you, thank you! You won't regret this! This is such a relief"

Through the onslaught of affection Hawke struggles to reply, but ultimately gives up and settles on steadying Isabella's hips, ready to push her off should she get carried-away.

"Hawke," Varric says, "congratulations on your new partnership, but you're forgetting that none of this," he waves the portfolio, "is possible while Harlan is still in the picture"

"He's right," Isabella says, letting up and leaning back to look at her, but not getting off. "You said you had a plan"

"I do," huffs Hawke, pushing uselessly at her lookalike's shoulders. She smiles, "It involves you, incidentally"

* * *

Merrill is distracted from her studies by a knock at the door. "Coming!" She says, marking down a place in her book and hiding it under the floorboards. You can never be too sure who might walk in and freak out at seeing a tome of forbidden magic lying out in the open.

She opens the door, "Hello?

"Hello kitten," Before Merrill can react, Isabella swaggers into the house, kissing Merrill on the forehead as she slips past. Merrill closes the door on a group of curious elves and realizing that, oh goodness, she has company, she moves to make her place more presentable. It isn't until she's about to retrieve her books that she realizes that, wait a minute, this is Isabella, not Hawke.

"Goodness you're so wound up"

"Ah, sorry. I just act on instinct sometimes and that leads to some awkward situations. Hello, Isabella, good to see you. I should have said that at first but I forgot because you surprised me"

"No worries, Kitten. I _am_ dropping by unannounced, after all"

"What can I do for you? Can I get you anything? All I have is water, but I do have some leftovers around here somewhere. That is, if you're in the mood for dried fish, which I at first thought was a strange food but living in Kirkwall I've gotten used to it. I suppose you must already be used to it, what with you being a pirate and all-"

"That's okay Merrill," Isabella laughs, "I don't require any fish"

"Oh good, because now that I think of it I already gave it to some orphan children, and it would be awkward if you wanted some and I didn't have any to give." Merrill looks thoughtful, "But then why _are_ you here if it isn't to have some dubiously cooked fish?"

"I came to see _you_ Merrill. Can't I visit a friend if I want to?"

"Oh, yes of course! It's just…I don't think that's ever happened to me before, someone just dropping in. I mean, I suppose Hawke has done it a few times, but she hasn't lately"

"She doesn't visit you anymore?"

"Oh no, she does. It's just lately it's always been because of lessons, or she's asking me on a mission"

"You probably see her a lot then"

"More than most I suppose, she is a very private person after all"

"I'll bet you enjoy having you to herself, as a teacher I mean"

"Oh goodness! You think so? That would be-"

"Did you know," Isabella breathes into Merrill's ear, and Merrill jumps a little bit because the pirate is right behind her and Merrill didn't hear her so much as move, "that you actually calm down when you talk about her?"

"I-is that so?"

"Oh yes," says Isabella, and Merrill feels a blush coming on because, by the creators, it's like Hawke is right there talking to her. Isabella's hand ghosts over Merrill's shoulder, "It is…adorable!" And she encircles Merrill's waist in her arms and twirls the startled mage in a circle before putting her back down again, albeit not letting go, and burying her face in her hair. Merrill almost passes out from the contact, wondering if this is what it would feel like if Hawke just noticed...

When Isabella calmed down the two of them settle down to talk, and Isabella gets it into her head that she's going to teach Merrill how to play cards, which the young mage is amused to go along with. Isabella is one of the most unique people she's met, and a wonderful person at that, with all kinds of zany experiences. In many ways she is everything that Merrill wants to be; an avid traveler, sexually adventurous, beautiful, witty. In a word, free. And Merrill doesn't know why this wonderful person seems to enjoy hanging around her, but she's happy for it.

Eventually it gets late, and Merrill hadn't even noticed, enraptured as she is by a particularly licentious tale, heavily-laden with double entendres even she finds hard to miss.

"Well," Isabella says, "I guess I'd better get going, I have an errand to run for Hawke"

"Oh? What kind of errand?"

* * *

Isabella is no stranger to assassination, after all her husband was assassinated all those years ago thanks to Zevran, and since then she has cultivated an alarmingly gung-ho and positive attitude towards the whole concept. And while she could never be as accomplished an assassin as Zevran, (Nor would she want to be. The life of a duelist and pirate is good enough for her, thanks) her rogue training affords her no small number of an assassin's talents. And an assassin's talents are useful for many different situations.

They're useful for climbing the sides of minor Hightown mansions. They're useful for picking the locks to said mansions. They're useful for sneaking past the surprisingly numerous quantity of coterie guards in the mansion. And last, and most importantly, they are useful for, well, assassination.

There he lies, Harlan, the self-professed king of Kirkwall's whore, swaddled in his king-size bed, with what is either a whore or his wife (though considering his professional life, either could be true). He is snoring contentedly, unaware of Isabella standing at the foot of his bed with a knife at the ready, unaware that the guards posted outside his room are dead, and the other guards are none the wiser.

When will people learn that more guards doesn't necessarily equate to better security?

This, Isabella realizes, is a kind of audition. Hawke's way of seeing if she can trust her not. After all, killing people for Hawke in a fight is one thing, assassinating them in their sleep for Hawke is an entirely different animal.

Isabella hesitates. Maybe this isn't the right thing to do.

Then she remembers that this man controls his people by getting them addicted to lyrium, controlling their supply so that they stumble in a drug-induced haze from jhon to jhon. Remembering this, sinking her blade into his neck doesn't seem quite so bad any more. Not great, but not bad either. So without further ado, she slides her knife along his neck. He doesn't so much as gurgle. The wife (whore?) doesn't wake, even with his blood pooling underneath her and into the sheets. Isabella looks down at them, shrugs and slips quietly out the window.

She walks into the night with the satisfaction of a job well done.

The cobblestones of Hightown make for an easy stroll. But more than most people Isabella knows that even Hightown isn't safe at night. Formidable as she is, Isabella is only one person, and she is hardly comfortable among the impassive stone houses of Hightown's finery. When she finally makes it to Lowtown she relaxes a bit. Among the dilapidated buildings and dirty shacks, Isabella is in her element, and feels confident swaggering along the alleyways to The Hanged Man.

Finally arriving at the Tavern, she grabs a man's drink right from under him, and is up the stairs to her room before he notices. She's in such a good mood that she doesn't notice the ambush of dwarves in her room, not until the club swings hits her on the head.

* * *

Hawke wakes with a start, breath ragged. Sweat stains her pillow case, cold and wet against her hand. The cool of the breeze slipping in through her window is a welcome relief.

The images swim in her memory, vivid but nonsensical, memories and impressions of slipping into a mansion, stabbing a man, walking back to the Hanged Man. Too realistic to be a true dream. A vision from the fade? Unlikely. Hawke knows the fade and this was not it.

She has trouble putting together what she just saw with the normalcy of her room, the stillness. A pain pulses on her forehead, a soreness, fresh and raw, as if she had just been hit. Hawke grips the sheets as if to steady the room, and eventually it stops moving.

Just in time for Hawke to remember that she never leaves the window open.

She never would have avoided the club otherwise, and she throws herself to the side as it passes through the space her head was not seconds prior, smashing into the wood of her headboard. Her assailant materializes from the shadows; a dwarf in the hooded leather armor of a Carta assassin. He is surprised enough by the dodge to be momentarily stunned, time that Hawke takes advantage of to freeze him in place.

Knowing he is likely not alone, she summons her staff and smashes its end against his head. It shatters, frozen chunks of meat cascading to the carpet in a series of soft thuds. She makes a mental note to herself to removes all carpets in the house. Her mother won't like it, but they hide footfalls far too effectively.

She waits, light breathing filling the silence, ears strained for the slightest noise. For the longest time, there is nothing.

She relaxes, allowing herself full breaths. Sighing, she crosses the room to close the window. A dwarf materializes behind her, plunging a pair of knives towards Hawke's back, and at the last moment is blown against the wall with a mind blast. Before she can recover Hawke pulls and smashes her against the opposite wall, though not strongly enough to kill.

Hawke makes an incision on her thumb and extends her awareness. Finding no more signs of life in the building other than herself, Mother, Carver, and Carver's bedmate, Hawke nods in satisfaction and steps into the hallway, stalking to her brother's door and kicking it open.

"Isabelle! What are you doing!?" He shouts, covering himself up. Hawke recognizes the girl from the Blooming Rose, and politely nods at her future employee. The girl smiles and waves back.

"Drop whatever you're doing"

"Whaaat!?" He asks, conveying incredulity by raising his voice a few octaves. He struggles between indicating towards the girl and covering up, arms comically flailing to-and-fro. Finally he simply settles on yelling, "How many times have I told you to not just barge into my room!"

She gives him an "oh grow up" look. "Carta assassins were in my room"

The embarrassment drains from his face, and he rushes over, all seriousness. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. I took care of them. Go fetch some of the boys, whoevers at headquarters"

"Yeah. Sure. What about you?"

"Interrogation." Hawke scrunches her nose, "Uh…maybe you should get dressed first"

Carver yelps, to his bedmate's amusement, and jumps to comply. Hawke pays the girl a final glance before winking at her before leaving the room. She can hear laughter trailing from the room.

* * *

It was with a profound sense of exasperation that Hawke exacted from her prisoner exactly what was going on. As it turns out, her neighbors, or at least a fanatical sect of them, are a group of mountain zealots determined to harvest blood from the Hawke family and sacrifice it to their god. Naturally, this would indicate three targets: Hawke, Carver and Leandra. Unfortunately, the Carta had marked a fourth, and it was this fourth that Hawke had resigned herself to rescuing about a week ago.

Honestly, to think that even the _Dwarves_ thought Isabella was her.

"Do you think Mother will be alright?"

Hawke turns to her brother, her silly wide-brimmed hat bobbing with the movement. Carver is wearing one too, as is Varric and the company of Red Irons with them. Just one more thing to keep them shielded from the sunlight. "We left her with Aveline, Carver. I'm pretty sure she'll be fine." He still looks worried. She grips his shoulder in reassurance. "Right now, we have to focus on rescuing Isabella"

He nods. He may not be overly-fond of Isabella, but saving her from a fate he might have shared is a strong motivator.

"Boss," shouts one of the Irons, "We have movement"

"What in the maker-" Hawke squints her eyes towards the distance. "Oh dear. Everybody prepare for an attack." Right on cue, an arrow thuds into the ground right next to her.

The company scatters to take shelter in the ruins. "Boss, get down!"

Hawke is about to comply when a sudden gust knocks her hat off of her head. This would be no big deal, but the chin strap catches on her neck, and the wind is strong enough to pull her to the side as she struggles to reach cover. Eventually she trips and feels sand crunching into in her mouth, dull and acrid.

She sees red.

"Boss! The arrows! Get down!"

Hawke climbs to her feet, ripping away the hat and spitting out sand. An arrow whizzes by her head, and this, she thinks, this is the last fucking straw. "No! I won't get down!" Arrows start peppering the group from above, and by either luck or some miracle they all seem to be missing Hawke. Her men watch terrified as she defiantly stares into the sunset, into the incoming barrage that dots the horizon, getting ever-closer. "We have been walking for days! In the blazing heat! I smell terrible and my hair has dandruff in it! I will _not_ be killed by a bunch of religious fanatics after having come all this way!" And without any further ado she cuts her wrist and allows the power to course through her, rampantly fueling her magic, creating a gravity-well in between her and the dwarves. Sand rushes into the epicenter, a great particulate mass that disorients everyone, save Hawke whse feet are rooted to the spot. All arrows stop in mid-flight and are swept up in the pull, and with them many startled dwarves.

"We are the Red Irons!" Hawke shouts, "And we will not stand any more indignities!" In the distance a cloud of fire materializes above their enemies and fire reins down upon them.

For the first time in their lives the mercenaries feel like more than a ragtag group of thugs, more than a part of a burgeoning circuit of organized crime. Put simply, they feel better about themselves. _Yeah!_ They think, their leader's pompous indignation becoming infectious, _These indignities will not stand!_

"Charge men!"

They oblige her, eager to hold onto that feeling of being part of something greater than themselves, to which Isabella Hawke is the gatekeeper. They take off in a run, and admittedly it is a longer run than they thought it would be, but though they are exhausted, their enemies are battered and scorched. The Irons sweep the disoriented dwarves into a bloody swathe of muscle and steel. Even the Irons archers get caught up, and in mid-chrage realize what they are doing wrong and hang back to notch their arrows, by which point the dwarves are already dead.

"Come on men!" Yells Carver, "We have a pirate to rescue!"

And so they press on, fueled by bloodlust and enthusiasm. Hawke marches grimly in their midst while Varric contentedly takes notes.

* * *

The Red Irons fought admirably; with more fervor than men of their standing could ever be expected to. Considering they had fought and killed a veritable god, Hawke figures they died good deaths. About four of her men are left, and among these four only two still have of their limbs. But they were alive dammit! And they could forever tell their grandchildren about how they followed Isabelle Hawke into battle and vanquished one of the dark mages of the Imperium. Needless to say, all four of them have had religious awakenings.

Hawke is genuinely surprised that, considering the utter disaster that was waiting for them, none of her men even considered turning back. In fact many of them insisted on joining her even after they had gotten back Isabella, who was no worse for wear, but severely annoyed. But most of all, and this Hawke would never admit, she was surprised that so many of her men had lasted as long as they did (even if most of them died in the end).

"You had better help me find _ten_ relics," Isabella had screamed as Hawke untied her on the sacrificial alter, "for this shit you got me involved in!" Seeing Isabella so rattled was funny enough that Hawke didn't even bother to say that it wasn't _technically_ her fault.

Isabella, like the few remaining Irons, is in a curiously good mood. "Doesn't anybody realize that we all almost died," Hawke tells her, peering sidelong at her brother leading the Irons in a song as the lot of them make their way back to Kirkwall, "we lost a lot of good men. Why are they so happy?"

"Dear Maker Hawke, they're happy _because_ they lived. Aren't you, I don't know, giddy? Thankful?"

"I know I'm thankful," says Varric, scribbling in his notebook, "got a lot of material back there. I'm going to turn this into a bestseller"

They both ignore him. "Yes, it's too bad about your men, but you still have those guys right?" she points at the singing group.

"Hmm"

"Oh big surprise, you're being a sourpuss. If you aren't happy to be alive, then at least you learned a lot about your father, and well, some admittedly dark historical secrets"

"Hmm"

"I swear Hawke, as soon as we get back to Kirkwall, I am buying you a drink! No, ten drinks! In fact," she raises her voice, "I'm buying everyone drinks at the Hanged Man when we return!"

The men cheer, and even Hawke can't resist a smile, snapping out of her introspective reverie. For now, she supposes, she can put her thoughts aside and enjoy the fact that, holy fucking shit, she is alive. She can put aside the fact that she dreams what Isabella sees, that she has recently killed a god, that she and Carver have found out the grisly truth about her father, that her men are now dead in a forgotten thaig; casualties of a fight with a swarm of darkspawn, and a mad ancient.

She can forget all this, because she is alive, and Hawke allows herself the amazement that comes with it.

"Very well, Isabella, I'll celebrate with you"

* * *

Hawke wakes up with a pounding headache, and immediately realizes she is not in her own bed. _By the maker_, she thinks, _if those dwarves tried anything again…_She lets the thought trail off, her own resentment dwindling with the pulsing in her cranium. No, if the dwarves got to her then she would probably be dead, not hung-over in the Hanged Man-

Oh…hahaha. She hadn't gotten it before. That's funny. She is in the Hanged Man. She remembers now.

"You know," says a voice right next to her, and Hawke's eyes go wide, "from the moment I laid eyes on you," Hawke turns her head slowly, deathly afraid of what she'll find, though already starkly aware of the truth, palpable as the warmth by her side, "I just knew this was going to happen"

Isabella looks down at her, propping herself up on an elbow, and as Hawke notices the pirate's nakedness she realizes that she too is naked. Isabella is grinning.

"You really had me going Hawke. There's no _way_ you haven't slept with a woman before"

Hawke does not scream, she does not panic, she does not react with involuntary violence. She does not fumble out of the bed in a panic, hurriedly yanking on her clothes so she can _get out of there_ as soon as possible to suffer the long walk of shame home. Perhaps it is because of the unusual effect Isabella has on her (and she on Isabella, for why else would the pirate be watching her as she slept without panicking herself?). Either way, all she can think to do is to calmly, and quietly, close her eyes.

"Balls"


	4. Chapter 4

"If I keep my eyes closed for long enough, I'll wake up and this will never have happened"

"I don't think that's how it works Hawke"

"That is so how it works. This is your cue to sneak out of the room because of your crippling commitment issues"

Isabella laughs, "Look if it makes you feel better, you came onto _me_"

"How could that possibly make me feel better? What you just said is the exact opposite of making me feel better"

Isabella caresses Hawke's cheek, coaxing her eyes open. "Hey there." She smiles at Hawke's dubious expression, "Relax. This was fun, it doesn't have to be anything more. And come on. It's not like you _really_ boned your sister, if anything this was like boning yourse-_mph_!" Hawke's hand whips over Isabella's mouth.

"No. Stop talking. Stop talking while the images in my head are still fuzzy"

Isabella pouts into her hand, and then smirks, making Hawke think that she's about to lick it, because really, that is the immature kind of thing Isabella would do. Hawke yelps as Isabella instead slips her hands under the covers and traces her fingers around the contours of Hawke's breasts. She capitalizes on the mage's surprise and slowly presses flush against her, kissing and biting the spot where Hawke's shoulder meets her neck, a spot which Isabella remembers drives her crazy.

"What are you doing?" Hawke asks, eyes lidded, half-heartedly trying to push her doppelganger away.

"Mixing business with pleasure?" Isabella grins at Hawke's pointed lack of amusement.

Without further preamble she slowly, sensuously, attacks Hawke's lips, smirking as Hawke makes a pleasured "mmmm" in response. Hawke's eyes are closed, but as she opens them she can see Isabella looking right at her, making sure that Hawke knows what's happening, what Hawke is allowing to happen, and what Isabella is about to do.

They both pause, and Hawke has time to considers putting a stop to this. In a sudden lapse of willpower, she decides not to. Isabella's hand under the covers has something to do with the decision. Her breath hitches as Isabella's fingers curl deliciously to the side.

* * *

Having sex with Isabella was weird. Good, spectacular even, but weird, like some seriously intense bout of fantasy masturbation. The implications of the act are so convoluted that when they've finished, naked and panting on Isabella's bed, Hawke doesn't hesitate to get up and get dressed. Finally, with a nod, a raised eyebrow, and an awkward little wave, she leaves Isabella on what she hopes are amicable, but dismissive terms. Her stride out of Isabella's room isn't exactly a walk of shame, but it comes close.

The way to Hightown is relatively quiet, and the silence affords Hawke the opportunity to slowly panic about what has just happened, and hope that nobody finds out, especially her mother. That would be bad, though Hawke isn't sure if it would be bad because of the teasing, or the implication of self-infatuation. Her ego isn't _that_ big is it?

As she draws closer to her residence in Hightown, Hawke is mildly perturbed to run into a group of dwarves loitering in front of her house. Both Hawke and the dwarves stiffen as they see each other. Hawke unslings her staff, digging a nail-mounted tack into her thumb. The small flow of blood quickens her blood magic, and in the midst of the euphoria she dazedly wonders if she's becoming addicted.

Before she can boil the lot of them from the inside out, one of the dwarves yells, 'Wait!"

He steps forward, clearly the leader, his lack of weapons and the extravagant cut of his clothes marks him as much.

"Wait! Still your weapon, serrah Hawke. We come in peace!" He walks closer, extending his hand. "My name is Dholan Rocksheer, I act as an advocate and representative of-"

"The carta, yes, I know. I've heard of you before," Hawke interrupts, ignoring his outstretched hand, "Your people came after me, Why shouldn't I kill you where you stand?"

Dholan awkwardly withdraws his attempt at a handshake. "I know, and I'm sorry about what you had to go through. It is a testament to your courage and strength that you were able to survive the ordeal"

Hawke sneers at the flattery,"Many of my men died"

"And I apologize for that too. Profusely. Please, before you judge us further, may we talk?"

Hawke narrows her eyes at him. "Talk"

When Hawke doesn't move, much less usher him to someplace private, Dholan hesitantly begins. "The group that attacked you…they weren't a part of the carta proper"

"What do you mean?"

"You must have noticed their…fanaticism. They used to be a part of the carta, yes, but when they began showing signs of madness, they were swiftly cut off. They split off into their own splinter group months ago"

"You're saying you had nothing to do with my friend's kidnapping"

"Of course not. The carta has nothing but the utmost respect for the Red Irons. It is our hope to make reparations, and continue our previous relationship in the spirit of good business"

Hawke's eyebrow twitches, "Why? Because you hope to apologize for your countrymen? Or because you heard of what I did to Corypheus?"

If he recognized the name he showed to indication. He ignores her questions, and instead beckons to one of his men. The man brings forth a heavy-looking wooden box. "For you Serrah Hawke, with respects from the Carta"

She kicks open the box with her foot. It is filled to the brim with golden sovereigns. She kneels down, tkaing a handful and letting the coins slip between her fingers and back into the pile. The clinking they make as they fall is a gratifying sound. She closes the box. "This is acceptable. Thank you for the gesture, Dholan"

"Not at all, Serrah. Know that from here on the Carta will extend to your house the same security measures afforded the other dwarves of the Iron quarter"

He motions to his men, and they all turn to leave, save for two who pick up the box and take it into her house.

"Dholan!" She calls.

He pauses. "Yes?"

"I overheard something when I was in the mountains"

"Oh?" He stops, turns, his men following suit.

"They said, and I only repeat what I've heard, they said that the Coterie has a stranglehold on the Lyrium comign into Kirkwall. Something about a economic blockade. They said the Carta would soon fall if nothing was done. Is this why you are trying so hard to foster friendships, I wonder?"

Dholan's veneer of politeness drops, and Hawke sees that he is making a visible effort to stifle a biting response. He turns and continues walking.

"Let me know if you need help with that!" She calls after him, smiling as plans unfold at the previously unforeseen possibilities. "I'm always looking for ways to diversify my interests"

So giddy is she by the sudden idea that she nearly forgets that she slept with Isabella. Nearly.

* * *

Predictably, the first thing Leandra does when she gets in is hug her, while at the same time berating her for taking unnecessary risks. That, and a great deal of fussing ("Your clothes are ruined! Why didn't you come into the house last night, even Carver came and he was drunk! Were you drunk? Were you with someone? Honestly!"). Hawke weathers it in the name of love.

Subsequently, she takes a long steaming bath, making sure to get herself as clean as possible. After a week spent fighting scores of dwarves, darkspawn, and the odd spider, a hot bath is pure bliss. It isn't until she's been lounging for a good hour, her skin assuming the texture of a prune, that she actually gets on with the washing part. She frowns as she notices the scratch marks along her thighs and back, and the hickeys left in more places than she cares to mention. She mutters Isabella's name under her breath, like a curse.

She soon puts it out of her mind, dressing and descending the stairs to find that her mother is singing in the kitchen, cooking lunch. She sits at the dining table, surprised to find that Carver is hunched over in his seat, head clutched in his face in hungover agony. He shields his eyes with resolutely-pressed index fingers. Hawke pats him on the shoulder and he flinches, but immediately calms down at the sound of her voice.

"What have we got today?" He croaks.

"You can relax Carver, we only just got back"

"Will _you_ be relaxing?"

"In my own way, yes"

He is silent for a while, "In that case, after this I'm going back to my room." He peaks his eyes out from behind his fingers, "What did you get up to last night anyway?"

Hawke stiffens, "Er…not much. Just, y'know, this and that"

He is silent for a long while, inquisitive, even though it looks like he has trouble so much as thinking. "D'you fuck someone?"

"Carver!" She sputters.

He cringes at the volume, "Not so loud! Ugh. Look, it's not like it's a big deal. You're my big sister for maker's sake; I'd have to be pretty repressed to believe that you don't have sex." Hawke struggles to come up with a response, but ultimately is silent for too long, "Andraste's tits!" He lowers his voice, "You did, didn't you? Who was it? Not one of the boys?"

"Of course not! Shut up you ass," she hisses.

"Come on, you can't expect me not to be curious. You're like, the biggest prude I know"

"Good, go on believing that." She punches his arm.

He scoffs and punches back. It's such a silly thing for them to be doing they both break out in smiles and exchange mock blows on the shoulder, the slapstick compounding the good mood of the previous night. He might be hungover and she might have woken up next to Isabella, but dammit they're alive. They laugh.

"All right, children," announces Leandra, raising her voice as she walks into the room, carrying a pot of beef stew in her hands, "that's enough of that"

Hawke punches her little brother's arm one more time as he gets up to set the table. Considering Carvers superior strength, she figures this is not unfair of her; her shoulder hurts like a rage demon has been chewing on it.

Despite her now sore shoulder, the three of them have a cozy family lunch, and Hawke reflects on how moments like this make everything she does worth it. Every dirty, underhanded, little thing.

* * *

After a satisfying meal, Hawke makes her way to the Alienage. Upon reaching Merrill's shack she is informed that the mage is out, and she decides to wait under the canopy of the vhenadahl, in no hurry to get any business done today. Folding her robes underneath her, Hawke takes a seat on one of the benches with a relaxed sigh, smiling as young elf children play without caring about her presence. Only a few months ago those same children would have regarded her with fear, by virtue of her humanity. They are still afraid of humans, but Hawke has been singled out as an exception, as well as anyone in a Red Irons uniform.

The sunlight is relaxing, warm and pleasant against sore muscles. Passing elves stop to pay their respects. Some of them even nervously ask her for favors, struggling to get the words out amid stutters. Hawke denies a few, but there are some she has no qualms about granting; a loan to start up a business, helping young workers send money back to their families, a request to have Aveline look into a murder. Thankfully, none of them trouble her for long.

"Hawke"

Hakwe smiles at the familiar voice, "Hello Athenril"

"So good to see the patron saint of the alienage actually _in_ the alienage"

"And you are a welcome sight yourself. Or you would be if I could actually see you"

Athenril materializes right next. "What brings you by? Surely not to grant us all of our sad little pipe dreams"

Hawke chuckles, "One of these days I'm going to find out how rogues do that"

She grins, "Good luck. It's a trade secret. You'll never find out"

Hawke shakes her head in amusement, "I'm here to see Merrill"

"Ah, the cute apprentice with the interesting artifact collection"

"Athenril…"

"Relax, I haven't been in there since you warned me off"

She doesn't say anything more, but doesn't leave either, prompting Hawke to fix her with an inquisitive raising of the eyebrow. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Athenril?"

"No, no. You've helped enough. Oh, that reminds me," Athenril pulls a jangling pouch off of her belt, "your cut"

"Thanks," Hawke says, pocketing the bag in a fold of her multi-layered robes.

"I'm actually here on the behalf of that woman over there. The one who's been wringing her hands for the last half-hour"

"I _was_ wondering. She's Dalish isn't she?"

"Recognize the tattoos did you? Yeah she's Dalish. One of my lieutenants is sweet on her, wants to help her out with a problem she has, so he brought her to me"

"Why do I get the feeling that this problem is about to become my business?"

"Because," Athenril laughs, beckoning the woman over. Arriani jumps and sheepishly begins walking towards them, "This is a problem that appeals to a specific associate of yours"

* * *

After the talk with Arriani regarding her son Feynriel, Merrill finally arrives. To Hawke's surprise, she is accompanied by Aveline.

"Will you help her?" Merrill asks Hawke as she fiddles with her keys. "She seemed so sad"

"I think I will. Athenril was right, it _is_ a unique problem"

"I won't be able to help you with this one Hawke, I'll be busy for the next week"

"That's fine Aveline," Hawke says, stepping into the house as Merrill opens the door.

Merrill busies herself by putting away her shopping, slipping vegetables and bread into nooks and crannies where one would not expect to find foodstuffs. To her surprise, Hawke helps her, long accustomed to the odd ways Merrill uses her space (Aveline simply takes a seat, not wanting to get in the way). It is such an easy familiarity that Merrill cannot help sending Hawke a warm smile.

"What?" Hawke asks, curious at Merrill's amusement. She smiles herself.

"Nothing. I'm just so glad that you got back safety," Merrill's eyes widen at her own statement, "_and_ that you rescued Isabella. I'm glad that Isabella is safe too. But also you. I'm, uh, glad to see you too. In one piece. Safe. Not that _you_ need saving! Because you're so strong. Oh dear, I'm rambling"

Hawke's smile brightens and she tousles Merrill's hair (much to the young mage's mixed feelings of pleasure and annoyance). "Thank you Merrill. I'm glad to see you too"

Merrill flushes red and hurriedly turns away, "Well? Shall we be going? I'm sure that the Feynriel boy isn't going to find himself"

"What's the rush Merrill? You only just got here. We can begin the investigation tomorrow"

"O-oh. I suppose you're right. How silly of me"

Aveline rolls her eyes, unable to believe Hawke's obliviousness. She gets up and busies herself with making tea, looking silly holding the small teapot in her daunting guard captain armor. "How are you doing Hawke?"

"Much better after getting back. Thank you for looking after my mother"

"It was no problem. You know that Hawke. She was a delight, though she had some words to say about my living habits," Aveline smiles ruefully, "It was just like when my own mother was still alive"

"She's _my_ mother Aveline," Hawke says, mockingly childish, "you can't have her"

Aveline scowls and swats Hawke's shoulder (unfortunately the same shoulder that Carver had been hitting earlier, intensifying the pain). "I understand the journey was quite grueling," Aveline continues, treading carefully, "I heard you lost some men"

Hawke's smile falters, the mood of the room darkening with the change of subject. "Yes…I…I did. I didn't really know any of them that well but…still"

Aveline nods somberly, handing Hawke a teacup. "It's a feeling you never really get used to. Did they have families?"

"No, Willem tells me they didn't, not that he knows anyway"

"Small reassurance that. Every time one of my guardsmen dies I have to write a letter to their families," Aveline peers into her teacup, expression fixed in grim contemplation, "that's the hardest part, really." She snorts in self-derisive amusement. "I'm sorry. I just ruined the mood didn't I?"

"Let's talk about something else," Hawke announces, trying to sound cheerful, "like what you two were doing before you got here? To my knowledge, you never hang out"

"Oh," Merrill brightens with the change of subject, "I was actually giving Aveline advice on how to handle her cru-"

"Shush!" Aveline sputters, "Merrill!"

"What?" Hawke asks, a smile growing on her face. "Is this something you can't tell me Aveline? I thought we were friends!"

Hawke makes herself comfortable, savoring the mundane sort of reverie that comes with idle gossip. It will not be long, after all, before she is flung bodily back into the turbulent comings and goings of Kirkwall's underground.

* * *

Two weeks pass, and Hawke wastes no time plunging herself back into her work. For the most part, this consists of running her organization from behind a desk, securing contracts and sending her lieutenants on routine assignments. To combat office rage she takes the occasional day trip into the city and surrounding countryside, fulfilling contracts personally.

* * *

**The First Day**

The first personal contract isn't really a contract, but that personal favor to Athenril; the search for Arriani's son, Feynriel. The investigation isn't particularly easy-going, mostly because she employs the services of a man who hates her. Still, Fenris specializes in tracking and killing slavers, and Hawke has to admit to a feeling a measure of satisfaction as she unleashes his frothing anger on scores of imperium slavers. He is beautiful in his brutality, and seeing someone struggle with their rage makes her feel better about her own issues.

As usual she parts with him on shaky terms, and he fixes her with a burning glare before stomping out of the cave where they found Feynriel. This means she should probably wait a few days before contacting him again. Whatever. As long as she's willing to help him find one blood mage, he can bloody well tolerate working with one.

"What happens to me now?" Feynriel asks, "Will you take me back to the circle? Or let me run to the Imperium?"

"You won't have to do either, if you come work for me"

And so it is that Hawke gains another apprentice, much to Merrill's annoyance. Teaching him how to control his powers takes up a lot of her time, but he is talented, and he soon finds an easy place in her organization as a healer, more than content to stay away from the fighting. He is unnerved by Merrill's hostility towards him, assuming that it is because he is a half-breed. But Merrill's crush is obvious, and he decides not to hold it against her.

**The Fifth Day**

The other missions are more straightforward.

"You killed them and tortured them because they were too _beautiful_?" Merrill asks, disgusted.

"It wasn't me. It was the demon. I came here because I needed to die, so that I would stop hurting people"

"And you brought the girl with you why? Because you needed company?" Fenris sneers, "Kill him and let's be done with it"

"Please, just leave me. I-" He's interrupted by Hawke's staff smashing into his jaw, knocking him to the floor.

"SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUT UP! SHUT! UP!" She stabs the end of her staff onto his nose, again and again and again; the blunt tip breaking it, flattening it, caving it in, and ultimately leaving his face a pulpy mass of blood and bone, sticky upon the floor of the crypt. She doesn't even stop to catch her breath, turning away and walking to the exit. "We're done here"

**The Ninth Day**

"You're a mage, like me! You can't hide it!"

"I'm not trying to Decimus, but you're the one who attacked _us_"

"You can't kill me! I'm strong now! Gracie, they have to die!"

"Decimus, no!"

Decimus stabs his palm, blood exploding grotesquely outward in the transmutation from blood to magic. The ground crumbles, scores of undead digging through the floor of the cave. They unearth themselves in a rebirth of rotted flesh and tainted magic, their faces stuck in permanent scowls, rictuses of unceasing pain. With a wave from Decimus, they shamble to the fore, charging at Hawke's group, rusty blades drawn. When they reach striking distance they stop in their tracks.

"You're new to blood magic, aren't you boy?" Hawke holds up a hand, her own blood draining freely from the palm. Slowly, with shuddering limbs that crackle and pop, the undead turn on the startled young mage that summoned them. "A little self-control might have done you some good"

After leaving the runaway mages in the cave, wills broken by Decimus's slow mutilation, Hawke and her party step into the windy sunlight of the Wounded Coast, only to be confronted by a contingent of Templars.

"I am Ser Karras. I am here searching for-"

Hawke fixes him with a glare, her face still smeared with the blood of the recently-killed. "They're dead," she says simply, staring into his eyes for a few seconds longer before stalking past him, jostling him with her shoulder. Karras looks to Thrask, who shrugs, and after watching Hawke and her party depart, motions for his troops to depart as well.

It is just as well, the smell of blood magic emanates from the cave, nauseating in its thickness. He has no desire to sully himself with the stench.

**The Twelfth Day**

"_You_ are Hawke?" The Arishok asks, an incredulity in his voice that Hawke cannot even begin to guess the meaning of. As soon as she showed up at the compound she was treated with nothing but rough hostility, behavior she did not typically associate with the Qunari. Isabella was right to warn her off of the compound. _Still_, Hawke thinks, _no point crying over spilled milk._

"Yes. I am Hawke," says Hawke jarring her arm away from the hold of an Ashaad, "I'm here with the dwarf. He tells me you might be interested in selling explosive powder"

The Arishok ignores her, drawing up and lowering himself so that they are face-to-face, noses almost touching. His breath is disturbingly scentless. "Do you think me foolish, pirate?"

"What?"

Spears converge on her neck and the necks of Javaris Tintop and the two Red Irons in her contingent, tips barely inches from the flesh. "Where is the Tome of Koslun?" He demands, severity dripping from his words like acid.

"I'm not with her!" Yells Javaris, "I only met her today!" He is silenced by the butt of a spear.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hawke hisses, flinching as a spear-tip strays too close, pricking her neck and eliciting a slow trickle of blood.

"You stole the Tome of Koslun. I cannot even fathom the depth of your selfishness." he takes her neck in his massive hand and slowly lifts her into the air, not so much as twitching in exertion. Hawke's feet unconsciously kick out as her esophagus is squeezed almost to a close. She gasps for oxygen, gripping uselessly at the Arishok's meaty fingers. This is not how she saw her day going. Not at all. "Tell me. Where. It. Is"

"I…don't…know," she chokes out, "I don't know….what you're…talking about"

He stares into her eyes, his gaze an unflinching yellow intensity. Hawke feels her consciousness slipping, a sliver of indignation stirring in her chest as neon lights swarm her vision. The blood trickling down her neck boils, and in no time at all it fizzles into nothing. The Arishok's eyebrow raises at the curious burn in between his fingers, and abruptly, against his will, his fingers shakily unfold, dropping Hawke to the floor. She lands in a boneless heap, struggling to push herself to her hands and knees. She vomits on the floor.

The Arishok's hand does not move, and the fingers begin to bend against the joints. Grimacing, he brings his hand into a tight fist, expelling the strange power that was controlling it. "You are serabaas"

Hawke says nothing, struggling to breathe.

"I was mistaken. Show her the way out," dismisses the Arishok, turning away. He settles on his throne. "She is not the one we are looking for." Hawke almost can't hear the frustration in his voice, but it's there. She can see it in his posture, fathomless, leaving him quivering ever so slightly in stifled, impotent rage.

"So," her voice is scratchy, broken, "that's a "no" on the explosives then"

The Arishok glares at her. She glares right back.

The Arishok doesn't know it, but their business is far from concluded.

* * *

**The Thirteenth Day**

"Maker! What happened to your neck?!" Exclaims Isabella. She had spotted the bruise sticking out from Hawke'e bandages , and before Hawke could stop her had moved to undo them. The two of them are sitting in her plush accommodations at the Blooming Rose. Isabella prefers to sleep in Lowtown, and still spends the majority of her time there, but having a private apartment in a high-class brothel is hardly a bad thing.

"Ambush," Hawke rasps, lying through her teeth, "almost got me"

"Maker," Isabella places a tender finger on Hawke's neck, "he had big fingers didn't he?"

Hawke smiles. Best to let Isabella think she's still ignorant for now. "He did. I got him though, in the end." She looks around at the opulence of the room, "I see you've made some improvements to the place"

"Oh yes. We're making more money than ever. Lusine is over the moon." Isabella's eyes trail back to Hawke's neck, "That looks nasty," she says.

"Eh, it's not so bad"

Isabella leans forward and places a gentle kiss on the sore skin. "Does it feel better now?" She asks, glancing up.

Against her better judgment, Hawke cranes her neck back. A little release wouldn't hurt after the crappy couple day she has had. "A little. You missed a spot"

Isabella smiles at the uncharacteristic boldness, and leans in for another kiss,on the lips this time.

When they're finished, clothes sprawled all over the room, they are both left, panting, satisfied and extremely unsettled; Hawke, because she had bedded Isabella _again_ (even though she swore she wouldn't) and Isabella, because the whole thing had been unusually _gentle_. Sure, they had to be gentle because of Hawke's injury, but still.

"You mean apart from the obvious?" Hawke turns, burying her face in Isabella's breasts and wrapping her arms around the pirate's waist. The action could be interpreted as affection, but for her own sake Isabella decides to believe that it is only Hawke's way, and does nothing to dislodge her sleepy doppelganger.

"Yes, apart from the obvious"

"I don't know Isabella," Hawke yawns. "Now be quiet so I can sleep and dream that this never happened." Her voice is ticklish against Isabella's skin.

"Come on," Isabella laughs, "be serious"

But Hawke is already asleep, exhausted. Isabella sighs, and tries not to think about how at ease she feels at that moment, in Hawke's arms. It has nothing to do with _feelings_, she knows, because Hawke has about as many emotions in her as a soggy rag. At least where Isabella is concerned. It might have nothing to do with feelings, sure, but whatever it is they have, it comes dangerously close.

"Balls"

* * *

**After The Two Weeks**

Hawke and Varric make their way to the Hanged Man, easily conversing in the relative emptiness of the Lowtown byways. They are in no hurry to reach their destination.

"You should have heard them at the Merchant's meeting, Hawke. They were in an uproar!"

"A good uproar or a bad uproar?"

"A little of both"

"What did they say about me?"

"Oh the older dwarves talked about your audacity, and the younger one's practically praised you as the herald of progress for us surfacers"

"They've been listening to too many of your stories"

"You _did_ kill a god Hawke, I was there"

Hawke fiddles with the belts of her robe, fastening the vest a little tighter in the cold of Kirkwall's windy coastline winter. "I get the feeling that it will be even harder to break the Coterie's block on the Lyrium smuggling"

"Not so difficult, really. All you need is manpower and money"

"I have both"

"Let me rephrase that: you need manpower, and a LOT of money"

"How much, do you think?"

"Nothing you'll be able to make for another three years, at least not while most of your assets are tied up in investments"

"Fucking investments"

"Whoa, there. Don't get angry on me now." Hawke glowers at him. "Hey it was your idea to take over the Rose, not to mention all that real estate in Lowtown. If you just raised the rent…"

"Out of the question. That's Fereldan housing, Mother would kill me"

"Admirable. But you won't have enough money to corner the lyrium trade by being fair"

Hawke shoots him a sardonic grin, "But I _could_ if I went on a hypothetical expedition into the deep roads?"

Varric grins in reply, "I didn't say that"

"You didn't need to, you silly man. I can read you like a book written in blocky crayon"

He chuckles, "You wound me, madam. But, you know, just in case, you should consider such hypothetical opportunities, at least if you're determined to cut out the Coterie. They've been cautious since your last stunt with Harlan"

Finally they arrive, settling down for a drink in a quiet corner of the Hanged Man.

"Tell me Hawke, you're already rich. Why pursue this?"

"The Lyrium trade?" She leans back, peering ponderously at the ceiling. "I'm not sure actually. People seek all kinds of power. Methods of control, be it over themselves or others. I guess I'm no exception"

"Are you saying you're after control?"

"Haven't you figured it out yet Varric?" Hawke extends a hand into the air, fingers poised and outstretched, as if there is something just out of her reach. "Kirkwall is a Templar city, and lyrium is its lifeblood." She clutches at nothing, fixing him with a vacant stare, and a smile that looks more dazed than amused.

"I guess we're going to the deep roads"


	5. Chapter 5

The insomnia happened infrequently, but it still happened.

In the weeks leading up to the big Deep Roads Expedition, Hawke spent a lot of restless nights avoiding sleep, getting things ready for the trip; buying supplies, making sure her business was safe while she was gone. About the only problem she didn't have was funds. Hawke actually laughed in Dougal's face when he offered her a loan, and Varric had the privilege of being there as his rival slinked sulkily into the night.

"You do realize this makes us friends forever don't you?" He had told her. It had made her day.

The only serious snag in the plan was the matter of finding an actual entrance into the roads.

When she found out that Bartrand couldn't even supply _that_, she got angry and spent the afternoon in a shouting match with him, causing quite a disturbance in the Hightown square, Anxious guradsmen had to politely ask them to leave, though much to their chagrin they were then confronted by Hawke and Bartrand's combined ire, reducing one rookie to tears. Aveline had a word with her after that.

Avoiding the whole fiasco, Carver, for once the mature sibling, enlisted Fenris and a handful of Irons and began to go about sniffing leads. It was sweet of him really. Though how much of it was due to consideration, and how much it was to avoid a sleepless Hawke was questionable. Carver wasn't sure _why _she couldn't sleep, but had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with Isabella.

He was right.

Isabella had a great many nightly activities, mostly involving sex and fighting. Her nights those days tended to lean towards sex, and a lot of it (due to a significant discount afforded her as co-proprietress of the Blooming Rose.)

It didn't happen often, but sometimes Hawke dreamed what Isabella was doing. And when she dreamed, she woke up not long after, angry and sexually frustrated. It was very aggravating, but she didn't dare let on the reason for her insomnia, opting to keep Isabella as much out of the loop as possible. That included their bond; if Isabella knew that Hawke was privy to her secrets, there was no telling how she would react. So Hawke kept her mouth shut.

This was especially poignant as she had no intention of giving the Tome to Isabella once it was found. She wasn't sure exactly _what_ she would do with it, but it would not go to Isabella.

"You report to me," she explained to the latest informant, a slippery little fellow named Wall-Eyed Sam, "as soon as you get even _hint_ of the relic's whereabouts, you tell me and no-one else. Got it?"

He got it.

While Carver searched, Hawke went about her usual business, albeit in an explosively agitated manner. Feynriel and Merrill were particularly wary of her, walking on eggshells during their lessons (which, despite how busy Hawke got, she did not cancel). During these sessions Feynriel was always excused early, as Hawke would not dare teach him blood magic. This inadvertently secured about an hour each day just for her and Merrill, and it was during these extra-curricular sessions that she was her most relaxed.

She enjoyed spending time with Merrill, perhaps because Merrill was one of the few people in her life she actually allowed close to her; a person around whom personal barriers needn't be quite so fortified. She was intelligent, sweet, pretty, and most of all she shared with Hawke the practice of blood magic. Being with her was a true respite from her mountain daily annoyances.

And this too, Isabella was ruining.

Not intentionally of course. Dreaming of Isabella's nightly practices, feeling what Isabella felt; it all made her very sexually charged, a feeling she had denied herself for so long, almost to the point of disappearance. But it was coming back with a vengeance, and focusing itself on her Merrill.

Hawke's eyes would linger as Merrill bent over, her mind would jump head first in the gutter when she drew too close. It was in sexualizing Merrill, finally seeing her for the attractive (ravishable) young woman she was, that Hawke had had enough.

One night, after a particularly intense Isabella dream, she kicked her way into Isabella's apartments, throwing out the young man Isabella was with at the time, and proceeded to hate-sex Isabella into a state of near catatonia, much to the pirate's confusion, and eventual pleasure.

Isabella never found out why, but didn't question it when Hawke began to make a habit of breaking into her room (office, alleyway, beach) and initiating passionate anger-sex without so much as a "how do you do?"

The problem with this was, Hawke realized, that it deepened their connection. She didn't know if Isabella felt it too, but Hawke was beginning to calm down around her, become more and more comfortable, even rested and refreshed. Whatever it was that kept them in bed the first time they had sex, it was working in full force now.

Slowly, agonizingly, Isabella was becoming addictive. Literally addictive; a font of euphoric calm around whom Hawke's barriers were unfathomably lowered.

One night, after they had finished, a tangle of limbs, identical faces panting in close proximity to each other, Hawke forgot to be angry. She would forget all the trouble this person had caused her, and all she could feel is a distinct warmth; a protectiveness. It was a painful affection, and Hawke nauseated herself to describe it as almost sisterly.

"What are you thinking about Hawke?"

"You"

"Oh? I'm flattered. What do you think about when you think about me?"

"How messed up this is. How I can possibly find you attractive. Don't you think these things?"

Isabella closed her eyes in contentment, "No, I don't. I don't know what it is about you Hawke, but..." she shrugs, bare shoulders rubbing against Hawke's own.

The answer was not at all satisfying and Hawke promptly went to sleep.

It wasn't until a brief stint at the wounded coast, fighting off an inferior mercenary group, that the connection began freaking Hawke out in earnest. It was a rescue mission to find the viscount's son. They were in the process of bringing him back to Kirkwall proper until a rival mercenary band, the Winters, had shown up en masse, throwing themselves at the fight in a frenzy that took everyone by surprise.

It was in the midst of the ensuing carnage that Hawke was suddenly hit by a crippling anxiety, halting her in the middle of casting a spell. She had gazed immediately into the throng, somehow knowing exactly where to look, wading into the violence with a determination that at once alarmed and invigorated her. And without needing to be told where or why, she found Isabella struggling against a trio of rogues, floundering in the face of an enemy immune to her stealth. It was when Hawke had dispatched one of the attackers, taking him by surprise with the sudden boiling of his blood, that Isabella was able to turn the tide and dispatch the remaining two.

And just like that the anxiety was gone. Isabella had smiled at her then, and Hawke's heart softened. The pirate immediately ran off to help Carver and Aveline clean up the remaining Winters (obliterating a dogged source of competition for the Irons), apparently oblivious as to what had just happened.

Hawke was silent on the walk back to Kirkwall, which wasn't so unusual. Isabella took it as a sign to drag her to the Hanged Man when they got back, plying her with alcohol and wasting no time in starting a sloppy make-out session right there in the bar.

"What's wrong Hawke?" Isabella asked her, pulling away, "By now you would have ripped my clothes off. Or shoved me away. Why so glum?"

Hawke does not reply. Ah, so Isabella noticed _something _at least, figures that sex had to factor in for that to happen.

Isabella sighs, "I can already tell what _fantastic_ company you are going to be tonight," she says, sipping at her beer in exasperation.

The sarcasm is grating. "Then go be with someone else," Hawke bites, avoiding Isabella's eyes, "it makes no difference to me"

She did not know if the silence she got in return was offended or indifferent, but Isabella simply got up and left. A young nobleman took this as an opportunity to slide into the vacated seat and chat Hawke up, to which he was moodily treated to his face being slammed into the table. She couldn't blame him really. She imagined watching twins making out was quite titillating.

She received no dreams that night, but woke up frustrated anyway, throwing on a cloak and making her way to the Blooming Rose. She just _knew_ Isabella would be there, and she just _knew_ that she would be, miraculously, uncharacteristically alone.

And awake.

"Are you over tantrum yet?" Isabella asked. She was asleep on the bed, eyes closed. But she didn't need to see Hawke to know she was there. Hawke wondered how much of that was Isabella's considerable awareness, and how much of it was the connection. Would Isabella even know if it was the latter and not the former?

"Yes," she said, not quite meaning it but not wanting to be in an earnest fight with the pirate.

"Good"

Without much else needing to be said, Hawke disrobed, slipped into the covers, and made up for her earlier slight. Even in the act, her hands and her magic working to bring Isabella to new heights of euphoria, she regretted going to Isabella. She was calming down, calming in the way a smoker does with the first drag of a cigarette after a day without cigarettes. It was, she knew, and knew it well, the feeling of addiction. Literally an Isabella fix.

As he slipped out of bed, leaving Isabella soundly asleep, she wondered if it affected Isabella too. On the way out of the Blooming Rose she bumped into Carver and the two of them shared a very awkward walk home.

"Do you have to leave right away?" Isabella asked her one night, several days later, interrupting Hawke as she was getting re-dressed. As soon as she said it she froze.

"Yes," said Hawke gruffly, ignoring the feeling stirring in her chest that told her to stay the night, to cuddle with Isabella for just another moment.

Isabella said nothing. Solemn, disturbed, agreement. Apparently they had done this enough times for Isabella to notice that something was amiss.

Their bond was becoming tedious. But as with many things in Hawke's life, she was much too busy to deal with it any time soon.

"You're a blood mage"

Hawke sighs, "Oh get off your high horse. Yes, I'm a blood mage. _You're_ an abomination." She is too tired to summon much more anger. The showdown in the chantry had been draining, and to be honest watching Karl slip in and out of tranquility has unsettled her, as it would any mage. "Will you give us your maps or not? Keep in mind, Anders, that I fulfilled my end of the bargain"

Anders and Hawke glare at each other, both parties obscured in the dimness of the Darktown evening. They are squared off in front of Anders's clinic, just having returned from the Chantry.

At first Anders seemed the perfect answer to their problems, though his prejudice against blood mages (for which he could not truly be faulted) was grating, but his own status as an abomination left his alliance with Hawke tenuous at best.

"Fine," he mutters, putting away his staff and digging out a large map from his coats, "I am a man of my word. Here," He hands over the maps.

"Was there something else?" Asks Hawke, noticing him make as if to speak and then stopping. Just because they don't see eye-to-eye doesn't mean they cannot at least be civil.

Anders seems to be of the same mind. "I wasn't completely honest when I said I hadn't heard of you Hawke. There are rumors of your…influence in the lower circles of Kirkwall"

"So you've heard of me. What of it?"

"I disagree with your methods, but they say that you're a friend of the refugees, and I have heard good things about your work in the alienage"

"And?"

"I would propose an alliance. As you can see my circumstances are not the most favorable, and I'm sure you could find some use for a capable mage"

Hawke scrutinizes him, seeing an earnestness uncharacteristic of most Darktown types. But the fanatical attitude gives her pause. It was in the face of every Carta dwarf she killed in the mountains. She wonders if he would die as willingly for his own cause. He is dangerous.

"Yes," the idea appeals to her. She needs a better healing teacher for Feynriel, after all. "I believe we can help each other"

She puts out her hand. Anders is about to take it when he withdraws.

"Answer me truthfully," he says, an edge to his voice. Hawke can feel Justice's mana stirring inside him. "Do you kill innocents to feed your blood magic? Like they do in Tevinter?"

Hawke stares into his eyes, summoning her own tainted mana, "Never"

He recoils at the sensation, but takes it as the honesty it is, and reaches to shake her hand. The contact is not pleasant to either of them, and they quickly separate.

* * *

"I have to come with you!"

"No. Mother said-"

"I'm a grown man Isabelle! I'm not going to sit twiddling my thumbs in Kirkwall because my mother was afraid for me!"

Hawke jostles him away, pulling him aside so that Leandra can't hear them.

"Are you stupid? Of course you have to stay here. What do you think is going to happen to the business if one of us isn't around to keep an eye on things?"

"But…" Carver grips his sister's shoulders, distraught, "you know me Isabelle. You know I can't handle this stuff!"

Hawke sighs, "Carver you're the only one I can trust, you _know_ that. If things get difficult...well, that's why you have Willem, and I guess Athenril if you're desperate"

"Then why can't I go and you stay?"

"Carver, just," Hawke makes an exasperated again, "I have to do this okay? Please, just do as I ask. Hold the fort for a few weeks and I'll be back before you know it. I'm counting on you"

Carver relents, knowing when he isn't going to win an argument. The two of them make their way back to the caravan where Leandra waits with baited-breath. Carver groans and moves to her side, shooting Hawke an annoyed look even as Leandra thanks her again and again.

"Are you done yet?" Asks Bartrand impatiently. Hawke slips him the finger. They're partners dammit. He can damn well wait for her to say her goodbyes.

"Merrill." The elf seems on the verge of tears, abruptly hugging the taller woman's midsection. Hawke laughs, 'Merrill I'll only be gone for a few weeks"

"I know," the elf sniffles, her face buried in Hawke's bosom, "just be careful alright? The darkspawn, they…they're dangerous. Be careful Hawke"

"I will," Hawke remembers Aveline's husband wilting away as the taint consumed him. "I'll come back to you, I promise"

Aveline is too busy to join her on the expedition, and in her place Hawke brings Fenris and Anders. Not the most cooperative of duos, but each one is more than capable in their own right. Nevertheless, Aveline has come to say her goodbyes as well; a hug and a gruff "Take care of yourself"

When those are over, Hawke is surprised to see Isabella inching her way through the crowd. She walks up to receive her.

"Isabella"

She stares at her own face; a perfect veneer of amused disaffection. Isabella never emotes what she really feels, not unless the two of them are alone. Hawke feels the pull, the urge to take Isabella in her arms, that addictive impulse that plagues her whenever the pirate is near. Judging by the quaver in Isabella's hand, the feeling is mutual. Hawke wonders if Isabella suspects the truth of the matter.

And if not that, how is Isabella interpreting her own feelings?

"Come back safe alright?"

"I will." The familiarity of the exchange makes Hawke uncomfortable, but warm. "Watch the Rose while I'm gone. Don't sample the merchandise too much"

"Of course," Isabella smirks, comfortable with the shift into banter, "and I can use the fifth company while you're gone, right?"

The fifth company is a sapper unit within the Irons that Hawke has sanctioned for Isabella's quest to find the Tome. They are instructed to help Isabella any way they can, though if they _actually_ find something then they are ordered do everything in their power to secure it for Hawke, and for Hawke alone.

"Yes, feel free. Turn Kirkwall on its head"

They share a laugh. Hawke can no longer resist, and she leans in to give Isabella a peck on the cheek. Light, meaningless; it is enough, but not.

"I'll see you then"

"Yeah"

And with nothing further needing to be said, the caravan leaves for the deep roads.

* * *

Hawke sleeps.

"Oh hello, I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon"

The fade reveals itself to her in all its esoteric glory. A gnarled landscape stretching beneath the floating platform on which she stands. The platform is littered with trees that spindle into unnatural shapes. Underneath these, however, is a mundane-looking desk, along with a few bookshelves that Hawke recognizes as the features of Feynriel's house. The man himself is seated at the desk, poring over a tome she had given him.

"Feynriel? What are you doing here?"

He taps his chin, "You know, I'm not sure"

"This is the fade, Feynriel. We covered it in your lessons"

"How strange…it feels _right_ here somehow. As if I'm coming home to something but I can't remember what. Oh? Where are you going?"

The world shifts around Hawke until she is standing in the wreckage of Lothering. Feynriel is no longer there, but instead she is joined by a figure wreathed in light.

The spirit doesn't smile, not that Hawke can sense anyway, but she gets the impression that that is exactly what it is doing. Its entire body is a faint outline of flickering white light; the shape of a woman…or is it a man? The features can't really be pinned down. But it shifts, luminescent plates and eddies swirling to reflect some semblance of mood and expression.

"Oh. It's you. I should have known"

The spirit says nothing.

"I would almost take another Isabella sex dream over spending time with you, you mute monster"

The spirit makes a motion that could be loosely interpreted as a shrug, crossing its arms and tossing its head back over one shoulder.

"Shut up," Hawke hisses, despite knowing full well that the spirit hadn't said anything, "and bring back Feynriel. At least when he was around I couldn't remember where I was in the real world"

The spirit's shoulders shake as if in laughter.

Hawke does not rise to the bait. "Maker you're annoying. I hate you with a passion I doubt you have the capacity to fathom. Unless you have something useful to say I'm going to wake up now"

The spirit does a backflip for no discernible reason.

"I would almost give you back my blood magic if it would get you to shut up"

* * *

Hawke wakes.

"Shit"

She takes stock of her surroundings, finding darkness and cave in seemingly limitless supply.

"Shit" indeed. Hawke is still in the deep roads. Groggily she climbs to her feet and stares out into the gloom. She smells of BO and dirt, and her clothes are torn in places she'd rather they were not. The damage is not because she let and blades or claws stray too close, but because of darkspawn blood having splashed onto her robes and melted through. Her muscles are sore and she aches for a bath.

The fire of the encampment is weak. It is very cold.

"Why are we still here!?" She yells, effectively waking Anders and Fenris, though they screw their eyes shut and pretend not to hear. On the other hand, Varric, who had up until that point been keeping watch, is thoroughly alarmed.

"Hawke, don't do that!" His ponytail is undone, wild wisps of blonde hair poking out like a disheveled porcupine. The trip, along with Bartrand's betrayal, weighs heavily on his body and mind.

"What!?" She yells, refusing to speak in anything other than outraged screams, "Why not?! We've been here for a week and we're going to die beneath the surface like the bajillion deepstalkers we killed a day ago! All because of your greedy douche-sack brother!"

She kicks the nearby decapitated head of a hurlock. It sails off into the distance, making a soft thud. Hawke falls to her knees, wailing in agony as her toe has broken upon the impact. With a sigh, Anders gets up and heals it, grumbling the entire time.

"That's it!" Hawke screams, surging back to her feet. Fenris scrunches his nose in annoyances and tries to cancel out the noise by pulling his pack over his head. "I'm going to go kill more darkspawn, because if I don't I'm going to kill one of you!"

She storms off, then storms back, muttering "I forgot my staff," rummaging through the tent and bringing it out. Her subsequent exit is slightly more subdued, but no less angry.

Unfortunately, it seems they had already dispatched most of the nearby darkspawn, as well as the nearby deepstalkers and the nearby giant spiders. And so it is with clouded judgment that Hawke walks boldly ever-farther into the darkness, magic trembling at her fingertips, searching for something to kill. She desperately needs something to kill, and when she kills it, she will pretend it is Bartrand, the traitorous little monkey. Many are the fantasies Hawke has thought up in the days since he locked her in the Deep Roads, so many in fact that were Bartrand to appear in front of her right now, she would have considerable difficulty choosing any one.

Well, it would not be _too_ difficult a decision. Maybe she would seek out Varric first, get some fratricidal vengeance going on.

Oh wait. Where _is _Varric? With a sinking heart, Hawke realizes that in her ardor, she has strayed much too far from the group, and is hopelessly lost.

"Great"

It is an unnerving feeling, being lost in almost complete darkness. The only light in this increasingly narrow tunnel is the placid bobbing of a willow-the-wisp floating above her head. The walls are decorated in primeval dwarven fashion, and the eerie patterns do nothing to assuage her nerves. Their shadows loom dramatically in the light of the wisp.

It is silent.

Hawke kicks a pebble, eliciting a chorus of clacks as it tumbles along, echoing fiercely across the rocky hallway. The clacking continues longer that it ought to have, giving Hawke the initial impression that the tunnel takes a sudden turn for the downhill.

She is soon rectified when the pebble comes back, only now as the foot of some sort of shambling rock creature still in the process of being formed. Finally it settles into a sort of triangular figure, vaguely humanoid in a craggy, unsettling sort of way. It has white lights at its crown that Hawke takes to be eyes.

Hawke and the rock-wraith stare at each other in seeming incomprehension. They might have remained that way had a trio of additional not rock wraiths stepped into the light, arraying themselves behind the original.

The lights turn red.

"Oh boy"

The wraiths burst into activity, launching electric projectiles from spindly arms in Hawke's direction. Some of them simply charge. Hawke endures the electricity, stalling her attackers by pulling them into a gravity well. She pricks her thumb while they are disoriented, feeling for signs of life and finding none. She curses, launching a tried-and-true fireball into their midst, scattering rock and dust every which way. The wraiths splinter, pieces breaking off with the intensity of the flame, though if it hurts them they show no indication. They charge en masse.

Hawke dispatches them easily, spikes of ice rising to impale and destroy. But before she knows it, more rock wraiths appear, and even more behind those. Hawke groans, slipping a knife across her wrist and preparing herself for what is likely going to be a long fight.

She is not wrong.

Scores of the rock wraiths pile out from the end of the tunnel, tumbling out of unseen crevices, making unearthly screeches as they form. They slowly push Hawke back with their unfaltering onslaught, dying by the dozens in a hail of Hawke's fire, ice, earth and force. Only a few ever get close enough to land a physical hit, but Hawke becomes exhausted anyway. She bleeds herself to excess, fueling her mana reserves with a cut here and a nick there, keeping the enemies at bay with her blood, ounce-by-ounce. Already she is feeling woozy, wobbling ever backwards.

She can't keep this up.

One rock wraith finally tackles her to the ground, pounding against her own rock armor until the chest-piece is about cracked. _So this is how I go_ thinks Hawke, underwhelmed by the stupidity of it all. She always thought that if she were going to die, it would be fighting off a horde of Templar barbarians at the staircase of some grand structure. It is an overly-dramatic fantasy, she knows, but Hawke has always been a secretly dramatic person.

No, instead it is a race between a mob of murderous rock wraiths and her swiftly draining lifeblood. Despair takes root, and she feels the will to go on draining with her energy.

On the surface Isabella wakes up from a terrible nightmare, startling the prostitutes asleep on the floor. What the hell was _that?_

A thought occurs to Hawke, an idea. A painfully obvious idea that she would never had considered even an hour before. If she goes out then she may as well go out with a bang.

She feels for the fade and it comes easily, intangible tendrils flitting across the surface of her consciousness, and she realizes that the spirit has been with her the entire time, waiting. It would be so easy to reach out and go full abomination, succumb to that terrible power. She _has_ always wondered what it would feel like…

"There she is!"

Oh thank the maker. The rock wraith above her is smashed into rubble as a giant hammer sinks into its head. It is the sweetest sight, even nicked and bloodied as it is. Fenris leaps into the fray, backed up from behind by a hail of bolts that takes the rock wraiths by surprise. She hears the souds of battle as if from far away.

"Let's get you healed up," someone says.

Hawke decides right then and there, as Anders pulls her out from under a limp rock carcass, that she will be nicer to him from now on. Healing magic fills her limbs like so many needles, at once painful and invigorating. And then all she knows is utter drowsiness.

"Guysh," she slurs, "I foun' a passasheway. Look," she waves vaguely in what she hopes is the direction of the rock wraiths, though really she is pointing at Varric's crotch.

"Uh, okay….just go to sleep now Hawke"

"Oh man Andersh, from now on I'm not giving you shit about bein' an abomi- abominano- abominamamano…glowy thingy. You seriously gotta teach me this spell. I swear, _such_ a good high….*snore*"

* * *

Hawke walks out into the light of the actual sun, savoring the feeling of it against her skin. She feels so good that she actually turns and hugs Fenris, who is himself much too relieved to shake her off in disgust.

Kirkwall is as crummy as it always was, but in the light of day it is beautiful. What is a piss-stain on the wall in comparison to the blood of darkspawn on your clothes? What is the sound of a mugging in the next alley over in comparison to the screech of rock wraiths in the shadowy distance? What is a noble turning up his nose at you in comparison to a demon enraged because you wouldn't take its deal?

Nothing, that's what. Besides, if the normalcy of the surface is not enough, then at least the fact that one is very, very rich is an able consolation. And Hawke is now very, terribly, vastly rich. The smile on her face is almost disturbingly wide.

"Er, Hawke?"

"Yes Varric?"

"Isn't that the Red Irons headquarters?"

Hawke's smile falters, devolving into a paltry grin, and then into a blank expression. In front of her lies the smoking ruins of the Red Irons headquarters, her base of operations. It has burned to the ground. She checks the surrounding houses to see if they are in the right place. She rubs her eyes. They are in the right place.

Her expression turns positively murderous.


	6. Chapter 6

The thing about leaving town is that you won't be around to look after all of your stuff. Your plants will need watering, your pets will need feeding, and someone is going to have to pick up your mail. Typically you leave these activities to someone you trust, and if that person is capable, even better.

Isabelle Hawke returned to Kirkwall to find her entire operation in shambles. The headquarters in upper-Lowtown was destroyed, many of her men either dead or assimilated into two-bit extortion rackets. Her properties were still intact, but had become slums seemingly overnight, with efforts on the part of the city to tear them down.

Shit was basically fucked up.

As she was investigating this, her companions went their separate ways; Fenris to brood in his mansion, Anders to tend to his clinic, and Varric to stare moodily into his fire while sipping a strong drink. Hawke is tempted to join him.

Thankfully her house is still intact. There's no way anyone would try attacking a Carta neighborhood. Just in case however, Carver had Leandra relocated. Unfortunately, the only piece of Hawke's properties that could still be considered habitable was a brothel, which means that for the last three weeks her mother had been living in the company of the whores and clients of the Blooming Rose.

It's true, nobody would have thought to look for her there, but Hawke didn't like it. She really didn't like it.

"Isabelle!" Leandra throws her arms around her daughter, already crying with relief. "Isabelle, oh I thought you were dead! We all thought you were dead!"

Hawke hugs her back, savoring the affection. Spending time underground in the company of two men she doesn't like very much has made her starved for familial love.

"I'm fine mother. I'm fine. I am so, so sorry you had to stay here"

Leandra laughs, sputtering though the tears. "You almost die and you're worried about me? It's alright child. The…employees have all been very nice. And Isabella has even let me use her apartments"

Hawke feels herself go faint. "You've been staying in Isabella's apartment? You've slept in her bed?!" Oh the things they have done on that bed.

"Don't fuss dear. I've been fine. Oh, but I've been so for you"

"You haven't been outside all this time?"

"No. Carver told me that it might be for the best"

Hawke grasps Leandra's hand, "I'm so sorry you got involved in all this"

Leandra sighs, "It's okay child. You don't think I'm used to this kind of drama after being married to your father?" She laughs, "Besides, the girls are such delightful company. Isabella has done a good job here"

"The…girls…you've been… the girls?" Hawke almost collapses in mortification.

"I'm a big girl Isabelle, and they are very nice people. Oh but some of the clients even thought I was an employee. And at my age! Let me tell you, that was quite flattering"

"Mother!"

Before Leandra can reply, the sounds of screams emanate from the lobby. "What was that?"

"Stay here," says Hawke, nudging her mother back into the chair. She moves out the door, locking it. Stabbing her staff into the floor, she places trap runes outside before rushing to see what the commotion is about. People are swarming out the front door, fumbling over one another and screaming in terror.

At the center of the now vacated mingling area is a tall foreboding man with braided hair. A girl is laid out on a table, a fresh cut made along her throat. Blood pours out of the wound, but she still clings to life, her body trembling erratically. Her blood evaporates as the man's face draws near it, turning into a red mist that he inhales into his nostrils. He closes his eyes in elation. When he opens them again, his eyes are a uniform black.

He bears the robes of the Imperium, and wields a gnarled black staff. A blood mage.

Looking down from the balcony, Hawke's eyes meet his. He grins.

"Did the coterie send you?"

The man points his staff in reply, launching a fireball that breaks the stone railing of the balcony. Hawke jumps for cover, landing behind another section of railing. She is sent jumping once again at the explosion of another fireball. Charred masonry tumbles to the ground, along with her staff. Hawke curses, slipping behind the wall to one of the rooms.

"We're playing it that way, huh?"

She peeks her head out the doorway. The mage is climbing the stairs smoothly, taking his time cool as you please. His every action sets Hawke on edge.

Hawke steps out of the doorway, deflecting the sudden fireball with her hands. The mage's grin falters, and before he can follow up he's sent careening across the room with an overpowered force-push.

"Bitch!" She yells, as he sails into the wall.

Hawke rushes down the stairs, scrabbling for her staff among the rubble. No sooner has she recovered it and donned rock-armor than she's put on the defensive by a crushing pressure all around her. Squeezing, constricting; the inexplicable sound of screaming presses against her eardrums. Hawke can see the mage hobbling in the foyer, supporting himself with his staff. He has a bleeding hand outstretched, closing his fingers as if he's trying to make a fist. Hawke can feel him pouring all his mana into the spell, every last drop blood consumed to fuel the spell. Inneficient.

Hawke withstands the onslaught, dipping into her own blood supply to endure. She stems the bleeding immediately, not fully recovered from the Deep Roads. It isn't long until the man is drained, and he drops to one knee, panting.

Hawke's rock armor slips off her body, mostly broken from the strength of his spell, but she is, for the most part, fine. Her retaliation lacks elegance, but it takes the Tevinter by surprise. She sprints the distance between them and catches his jaw with a full swing of her staff. Physical combat was never her strong suit, but her backswing is strong enough to break bones.

The man's jaw breaks instantly, and before he can recover Hawke has jammed a foot on his nose.

She presses the end of her staff against his face; a light pressure, but threatening. It is all she can do to resist the seething anger begging to reduce every bone in the man's body into paste. "I'll ask again. Did the Coterie send you?"

The man stares into her eyes. He nods.

"To kill me?"

He shakes her head. "To…burn…to burn-" blood splutters out of his mouth

"To burn down the Blooming Rose?"

A nod.

Satisfied, Hawke summons an icicle at the end of her staff. It slides easily into the man's brain, killing him far quicker than Hawke would have liked. As the life drains from the mage's eyes, Hawke drops her staff and makes her way to the side of the young prostitute bleeding on the table.

There is no pulse; the girl is dead.

"Dammit"

The girl stares blankly into the air, mouth open slack. Hawke closes her eyes, swiping her palm over inert eyelids.

"Hawke"

Hawke turns to the sight of Anders, out of breath and lingering at the entrance of the Rose. His eyes widen at the sight of the girl and he makes his way to her side.

"Don't bother," says Hawke, "she's dead"

"I was too late then"

"Yeah. I guess. What are we talking about exactly?"

He turns to the corpse of the mage bleeding on the floor. "I know this man. He…used to be a part of the mage underground"

"This was the mage underground!? Do I have to go hunting for _them_ now too?"

"No! No. This man was part of a group of radicals. Dissenters. They sell their skills for money; often resorting to crude forms of blood magic. They call themselves the Wretched"

"If they're anything like this guy then they don't have much training"

"That's poor consolation," Anders says, closing the dead mage's eyes. "It's a shame. So many young mages lose their way because they have nowhere else to turn. Eventually it consumes them, turns them into monsters"

"This one had power but no training"

"A contact in the Mage Underground let me know that this was going to happen. I came here to warn you"

"You're going to give me that contact's name. They came to burn down the Rose. Do you think they'll send anyone else?"

"Not likely. They don't have many members, so they probably won't risk attacking you after you already killed one of their own." He picks up Hawke's staff and hands it to her. "Then again, blood mages aren't the most rational individuals so…"

"So I just made another enemy. Great. Thank the maker for kicking me while I'm down." Hawke stalks up the stairs to make sure her mother is okay, "I can't imagine how this situation could get any worse"

* * *

It gets worse.

"So"

"So"

Hawke stares at her brother with an expression Carver recognizes as serene malice. It is the look she used to give him back in Lothering when he teased her a little too much, and it was usually followed by much shouting and drubbings.

"You…are a Templar now." She grimaces in distaste.

"Er…It's a long story"

"Give me the short version"

"The Coterie came after us after you left. I…suppose you heard"

"Yeah I heard," says Hawke rubbing at a bandaged cut on her forehead where stray rubble had caught her. She hadn't felt it at the time.

"After they took out headquarters they started coming after me personally. Mother too. I had the dwarves relocate her"

"Yeah I saw her. She's well"

"Good. Good. I tried to recoup our losses but…they came after me pretty strong. Nowhere was safe so…"

"So here you are"

Carver laughs nervously. "Coterie wouldn't dare strike at the Templars right? Not in this city." A silence extends between them. Hawke's unceasing gaze is unnerving. "I'm…sorry. I let you down. You trusted me and-"

"Not going to lie Carver," says Hawke, a little louder than necessary, "I'm pretty fucking disappointed"

"Well you shouldn't have left me in charge!" He says, stress clearly-accentuated on his features, "I told you not to and you did anyway! Like suddenly I'm supposed to be a great administrator as if I hadn't proven time and again how shit I am at anything other than being a soldier!"

"Oh, so it's my fault now?!"

"No! No, that's not what I'm trying to say. Maker! Don't put words in my mouth," he habitually ruffles his own hair, an agitated-tic. "I'm just saying you share some of the blame. I wasn't at all prepared for what the Coterie threw at me"

Hawke throws her hands in the air, biting back the impulse to lash out at him. "Okay! Fine! It was my fault too! Are you happy?"

"A little bit, yes!"

Brother and sister look at each other in exasperation. Other people in the Gallows visiting area cast them disapproving glances, not that either of them really notices. For a time, they are both children again, wanting badly to pull on each other's hair or sucker punch each other's arm, but too conscientious of their age to actually do it.

"Well in any case I'm rich now," grumbles Hawke, "so if you want we could probably pull you out of here"

"You starting up the Irons again?"

"No. Not for a while anyway. The whole organization has gone to shit"

"Well for what it's worth I'm sorry about that"

"And I guess I'm sorry too. I should have made…contingencies"

Carver's look softens, "You need more people you can trust Isabelle, it can't just be me." He laughs in amused self-depreciation, "I mean, clearly I'm not the best option"

"You know that's always been hard for me"

"I know Isabelle, I know." He takes her hand. "I'm fine where I am for now. Maybe I can help you, from the inside, if ever you want to get the operation going again"

"Carver, I only just got back and everything's so messed up. I...I don't know if..."

"You're the strongest person I know. You'll get through this. Just follow your instincts"

* * *

Hawke's instincts tell her to kill people.

The Coterie does not have an official headquarters, as it is actually a series of organizations that operate under the management of a few top lieutenants, all reporting back to the same Grand Don. However if someone were hard-pressed to point out such a headquarters, they would likely point to the Grand Don's house.

The confusing thing about said Grand Don's house is that is actually located in Lowtown, and not Hightown as most people might guess. Presumably this is because it is the neighborhood in where the Grand Don grew up, or perhaps because it is the only place in Kirkwall in which safety is absolutely guaranteed. Most likely however, the Grand Don is there because most people would not as much; even the Carta lieutenants take orders from via a confusing system of go-betweens, ignorant of their employer's exact locations.

The Coterie at large doesn't know where he lives, but the Carta does. And as an unofficial ally of the Carta, so too does Hawke.

The doorguard doesn't recognize her, and neither does the second doorguard. But when she refuses to leave they get their supervisor, and _she_ definitely recognizes Hawke, pulling out a dagger only to be knocked down with a mind-blast. She cringes, expecting to be killed instantly, but Hawke extends a hand, forcibly helping her up.

"I only want to talk"

The lieutenant is hesitant, but as soon as she regains herself she immediately summons an armed guard to escort Hawke inside the building.

It is a short walk, and the interior of the house is surprisingly empty. It isn't until they reach a large central chamber, adorned in the trappings of a simplistic bedroom, that they encounter another person.

To Hawke's surprise, it is a dusty old woman peeling a potato.

She ignores them, entirely focused on the task at hand, lips taut in concentration. The footsoldiers stare rigidly ahead, almost military in their discipline.

Finally the old woman finishes peeling, tossing the potato in a bucket with a "plop" and wiping her brow. She looks up, assessing the soldiers before dismissing them with a wave of her hand.

"Are you sure, Ma'am?" Asks the lieutenant, surprised at the dismissal, "She-"

"I am well aware of Serrah Hawke's talents," says the old woman, her voice a gruff rasp. "You may go, Cecilia"

The soldiers exit the room. The lieutenant follows, casting the two women a wary glance before backing out the door. Finally Hawke and the Grand Don are left alone.

"Please, sit," she says, almost sounding pleased. She is a tall woman, and thin, though hardly frail; she has a wiry musculature and energy that belies her age. She stares at Hawke with bright gray eyes.

Hawke takes a seat in the cushioned sofa opposite, leaning her elbows on her knees to mirror her host.

"Cecilia is afraid that you're going to kill me"

"She's right. I am going to kill you"

The old woman chuckles, "You gave her quite a scare a couple months back. She still has nightmares you know. Of how you killed her men. It was her first command post, incidentally. She's been afraid to lead ever since"

"If you heard about that then why on earth did you dismiss your guards?"

"Curiosity I suppose. Wanted to meet the woman who has my whole organization in an uproar." She resumes her potato peeling. "So, you _did_ come to kill me?"

"Yes. But now I'm conflicted. I didn't expect you to be...this"

The old woman cackles. "I thought so. You strike me as a considerate woman. Not impulsive. Refreshing in a gang leader"

"I'm not a gang leader"

"Ha! Of course not! You're just the kind of person who has men assassinated to take over their business"

"You don't seem too beat up over it"

The old woman cackles, "Harlan was a thug. There's no love lost between he and I"

"And yet you had the majority of my organization decimated while I was away. You know how much it's going to cost rebuilding all of that?"

"Yes, well. There is that. Can you blame me? I had to send _some_ kind of message or else I'd look weak. Besides, without you around to reign in your operation, there's no telling what your people would do. It was a volatile situation, so I had it handled"

"You "Had it handled!?" Seriously? If you're trying to convince me not to kill you, you aren't doing avery good job"

"Yes. Yes I suppose I'm not. I'll bet it would be easy for you too. But we both already know that you won't"

Hawke glowers. "Don't be so sure." She points the end of her staff at the old woman's forhead.

The old woman is unfazed. She finishes peeling her potato, plopping it into the bucket. "You know you remind me of myself when I was your age. Of course I was only a simple businesswoman when I got started, _and_ I didn't have magic. But I was just as trigger-happy. But, I've been doing business forty-seven years now, and you don't get to be as influential as me with just the ability to kill people at a whim. You want to know my secret?"

"What's that?"

"Rationality. Approach all things rationally and you can get to be my age. So yes, you could kill me now? but really, you're too smart for that. Think it over, you'd realize that all that would accomplish is create a power vacuum, and that would mean war, infighting. And for all anyone ever knows that would just mean the Templars would have to come in and put the lot of us down. No, if you're smart you'll have to _wait_ to kill me, dearie"

"Maybe I'm not feeling so smart right now"

The old woman chuckles, "Good heavens, child. I know you're type. You can't _stop_ being smart"

Hawke lowers the staff. "Then what was this about?"

"Like I said, I wanted to meet you. And hopefully stop you from retaliating against the Coterie. It would be such an awful loss of life…No, what I propose is a cease-fire of sorts. You leave me alone and I'll leave you alone"

"Just like that?"

"Just like that"

"I'll start up my group again"

"I would expect you to"

"And I can't just let you get away with what you've done. You had the Blooming Rose attacked for Maker's sake. A girl died"

The old woman sighs. "Ah, yes. That was indeed a shame. One of my lieutenants ordered that. Has no compunctions about the contract killers he hires. Anyway, you don't have to worry about him anymore. Just think about what I said, eh? This can be beneficial for the both of us"

Hawke stares at this enigmatic woman, unheeding of the door opening and admitting the Coterie lieutenant from before. Hawke feels a hand on her shoulder. She rises, whirling around, eyes blood-red with anger-induced magic. Cecilia cringes. The old woman cackles, "What did I tell you? Impulsive!"

Cecilia seems shamed at her own fear, and forces herself to meet Hawke's gaze. She can't stop herself from trembling.

"Cecilia will show you out now"

With a final at the old woman, Hawke lets Cecilia walk her to the entrance.

"Your boss is crazy you know that?"

* * *

Hawke's meeting with the Grand Don was unsettling, but their exchange is a welcome relief. In many ways the meeting went astronomically better than she could have hoped, with much less bloodstains on her clothes than she anticipated. But demons move in confusing ways, and not all of them live in the fade. She'll have to watch herself with that woman.

Still, not having to worry about further Coterie antagonism is a weight off her shoulders. She was about ready to go on a city-wide killing spree for a moment there.

Oh well! Crisis averted! Hawke allows herself to feel optimistic.

So in lieu of killing, Hawke instead spends her time visiting friends who had long been under the assumption that she was dead.

Her reunion with Merrill starts out much like it did with Leandra, with arms being thrown around her and much tearful sputtering. It is a warm feeling; the Deep Roads had instilled in her an appreciation of the simple things; sunlight for one, clean oxygen, food that isn't roasted deepstalker, the clear adoration of her little elven student.

It's almost overwhelming.

Merrill doesn't say anything, just sort of weeps into the fabric of Hawke's robes. It isn't unwelcome attention though, and she maintains her embrace on her friend, neither of them letting go even when Hawke awkwardly falls back onto Merrill's sofa.

"I thought you were dead," mumbles Merrill, though with her face pressed against Hawke's bosom it sounds more like, "mttthtwrrted." Hawke laughs, stroking Merrill's hair in patient reassurance.

"I'm alive Merrill"

Merrill shakes her head, shifting the layers of Hawke's robe. It is an utterly charming motion.

"Alright now," says Hawke gently prompting Merrill to lean back. She wipes away Merrill's tears. "I'm glad to see you Merrill"

Merrill nods, unable to bring herself to say anything. The relief is overwhelming. Instead she gets up, bustling about her home to make Hawke a cup of tea, fighting down her emotions.

"Mmm," says Hawke, savoring the aroma wafting from the cup Merrill hands her. "I've missed this"

"You'll have to tell me all about the Deep roads sometime. I'll bet it was an adventure! I…I was so afraid when-"

"That's enough of that. I'm alive, let's move on." She sips her tea, nodding appreciatively. "How have you been Merrill?"

"I've been…good. Things have been hectic, what with the old headquarters burning down, and people thinking you were dead. Some of the men died, though I hear most of them work elsewhere. A few of them have been here in the alienage. The elven recruits brought them, which was nice. The Red Irons have a good reputation in this neighborhood"

"I'm glad to hear it"

"It was so strange actually; the troops started acting like I was in charge. Even the human ones! Can you imagine? I was so flustered! I hadn't the faintest idea how to behave like a leader. I can't be all tough like Aveline, or charismatic like Isabella. But then Athenril helped me and told me how to act"

"Er…how was that?"

"Well, she told me to act like you actually. And all that really means is not talking very much, and being dour and broody as much as possible, and to wear all black and several layers of robes which can be really cumbersome sometimes"

Hawke doesn't know whether to be offended or flattered. "And that worked?"

"Oh yes! Very well in fact! We were able to repel a few raids on the alienage, and the troops actually listened to me! I mean, it was almost entirely Athenril's doing. She gave me the credit though, which was nice of her. Feynriel stuck around to help me for a while but eventually he left to take over Anders' clinic. So really it's just been me and Athenril, taking care of the Alienage, drumming up business. I have no idea how you do it!"

Hawke smiles, shaking her head in that way people do when they are happy to be proven wrong. "I'm proud of you Merrill"

"Oh!" Merrill hides her face, flustered, "It was no big deal really. Like I said I had a lot of help and-"

Hawke grips the elf's shoulder, "I'm serious. I've been treating you like a kid when all along you've been this capable young woman. You don't need me anymore"

Merrill is speechless, staring up into Hawke's eyes with wide-eyed wonder. "Oh no that's not true! I'll never stop needing you Hawke." She pales at the impromptu admittance, and her cheeks color red. "I mean, that is…erm…nevermind!"

Hawke raises a single amused eyebrow. Merrill couldn't….could she?

Nah, probably not.

* * *

Hawke is rather ashamed of herself at the moment.

Well, not really ashamed. Resignedly self-disappointed? No, that's the same thing. Hawke promptly gives up assigning a label to her conflicted emotions.

No sooner had she left Merrill's house than she had walked to the Hanged Man, where she had met up with Isabella, and promptly fell in the pirates bed.

Shame isn't the right word for what she's feeling, but it's pretty close. There's also, pleasure, vindication. Satisfaction.

Oh yeah, satisfaction figures pretty high up there.

Isabella is currently curled up naked against her back. The big spoon. She has just told Hawke that she has missed her, that she wouldn't cuddle with just anybody you know. It's the addiction speaking; Hawke knows that now. Isabella is much too insecure and flighty to be like this with someone she has met hardly four months ago. Caring, soft; she wonders if Isabella feels it too.

But Hawke isn't going to bring that up. The addiction works two ways after all, and on her part Hawke is enjoying it after weeks underground. The way Isabella is brushing her fingers over the inside of her thighs, teasing the tips of her breasts; it is both maddening and spectacular.

"You've missed me, huh?" Asks Hawke, her voice hitching.

"Oh yes. For some reason it seems no-one can satisfy me like you can. It's disturbingly egotistic of me, really. But who am I to deny self-indulgence?"

"I suppose without self-indulgence you would be, well, me"

"You think so?" asks Isabella, becoming much less subtle with her ministrations. Hawke's breathing quickens, she writhes against Isabella. "I don't know if I could do it. Be all severe and secretly power-hungry like you"

She plunges a finger inside Hawke, eliciting a moan. The pirate knows her way around a woman.

"Don't you think there's more to life?" Asks Hawke, her voice wavering, "To having power? Riches?"

"I suppose so," says Isabella, breath hot against Hawke's neck, "to some degree. But those just don't appeal to me like they do to you"

"Why not?"

Isabella sighs, "Do you really want to talk while I do this?"

Hawke hesitates, then shakes her head no.

"That's what I thought"

Isabella takes her time bringing Hawke to climax, teasing her. She bites Hawke's neck more than once, knowing that Hawke likes that, and she sinks her teeth especially hard right at the very end. Hawke tenses against her, trembling with the shockwaves of pleasure coursing throughout her body, burying her face in a pillow to silence her cries. When it passes, she relaxes; a boneless heap in Isabella's arms.

She easily falls asleep.

She wakes up some time later. Isabella is seated at her desk, poring over a journal that Hawke suspects records the various leads she has on the whereabouts of the Tome of Koslun. She snorts in amusement; the studious look is completely at odds with Isabella's usual presentation.

"Awake are we?"

"The idea of you writing in a book instead of being in bed with a beautiful woman is too funny for me to stay asleep"

Isabella grins. She kicks off her boots and saunters back to the bed. "I never thought I would say this but I'm actually too tired for any more sex. Isabelle Hawke, I do believe you wore me out"

"What can I say? I am a woman of many skills"

Isabella slumps into the covers, wrapping her arms contentedly around Hawke.

"Tell me about yourself Isabella"

"Hmm? Why so curious all of a sudden?"

"I don't know anything about you, for one. And we do happen to look exactly alike"

"Hmm, you think there's some secret in my past that will clue you as to why? It's just a coincidence Hawke"

"Now you're being pragmatic? Come on, indulge me"

Isabella shakes her head in agitation, "Let's just drop it okay? It's not something I like talking about"

**Frustration. Isabella is so cagey, much too guarded, even now. It would be so easy to just reach and **_**make **_**her open up...somehow, wouldn't that be easier?**

**Something **_**shifts**_.

Hawke gasps, her fingers tingling as if they're numb. What the hell was that?

Isabella's expression changes, shifting from annoyed to conciliatory. She sits up and sighs. "Get dressed. If we're going to do this then we should be drinking." She fishes around beneath her bed until she finds a flagon of brandy. She takes a long gulp.

"Wait, just like that you're going to talk to me now?"

"I guess so," says Isabella passing Hawke the flagon.

Hawke hesitates before accepting it, uncorking it with her thumb and taking a swig. She grimaces at the taste. It is obscenely strong.

"Holy shit Isabella what is this?"

Isabella laughs, "Its Rivaini brandy. Give it a moment, the aftertaste is spectacular"

Sure enough, a few seconds and the lingering taste of something tangy and salty at the same time sinks into her taste buds. "That is good"

"I know right? That's Rivaini brewing for you, you have to overcome a strong barrier before getting to the sweetness behind it." Isabella accepts back the bottle, "I'm Rivaini originally"

"Well I already knew that much. Tell me about your childhood"

"My childhood?" She scoffs, "I didn't have much of one. I lived with my mother near the harbor. She was a fortune teller. Not a real one, mind you. She passed out cheap baubles and called them charms"

"How do you know they didn't work?"

"You mean do I think she could do magic? If she was an actual mage I think she would have found a better way to keep food on the table. Or turned into an abomination. No, eventually she converted to the Qun. Not by her own volition, of course. The woman was much too impious for that. This was during the Qunari occupation, so it was a forced conversion. That didn't stop her from selling me into marriage to an Antivan Crow, or an associate of them, I'm not sure"

Isabella's expression turns soft. Not angry, but mournful. It hurts her to remember these things.

"You don't have to-"

But Isabella goes on, as if hypnotized. "For years I was little more than that man's plaything. He bought me pretty things and kept me fed and healthy, but it was a cage. A gilded cage, but cage nonetheless. I hate cages. I couldn't…he…ugh, one day he asked me to _entertain_ for his friends. You can't imagine how terrified I felt then." She shivers. "I swore I would never be boxed into such a corner ever again"

"What happened?"

"Well," Isabella brightens, "it gets better. Before anything could happen to me an assassin came along and killed my husband. My life's been pretty good ever since"

"Soo…nothing magical?"

"Not that I can recall. Sorry." Isabella takes another swig of her brandy, passing it to Hawke. "I can't believe I told you all that," she says, bewildered, released from her reverie. "That was…why did I just tell you that?"

"Er…you felt like opening up?"

"Don't joke. That was…really weird. Maybe it's something in the brandy?"

"Isabella please"

**Fear. Isabella tries to hide it but she's afraid. Through the bond Hawke can feel her distress mounting. Hawke's fingertips tingle and she reaches out, twists. **

Isabella calms down. She looks at Hawke, a confused crease in her brow. She smiles, and the gravity of what she has just done shocks Hawke to the core. "What were we talking about again?"

Hawke's heartbeat quickens, not only because she realizes the full extent of the power she holds over Isabella, but because she wonders if, like the addiction, it can work both ways.

She takes Isabella into her arms, whispering apologies that have no meaning.

* * *

Authors note: chapters are pretty long, huh? Sorry about that.


	7. Chapter 7

"Am I a gang leader Varric?"

Varric's irises are glazed over, urbid wells that lazily turn towards Hawke's direction.

"Why do you ask?" He says, voice carrying the most delicate of slurs.

"A strange old woman called me one, and about five drinks ago I started to think that maybe…maybe she was right." Hawke's elbow slips off the armrest, her hand slack. An empty bottle slips through her fingers clattering to the floor. "Make that six drinks ago"

"How do you figure?"

Hawke sighs, settling into the stone armchair, eyelids drooping, staring unceasingly into the fire. She reaches to the table behind them for another bottle.

"I've made some questionable decisions. I'm no saint, I know that better than anyone. But I like to think I was doing something…I don't know, _right_. But then I turn my back for a minute only to find out my whole kingdom was made of salt"

"Four weeks"

"What?"

"You turned your back for four weeks. We were down there for four weeks"

"Whatever. You know what I'm trying to say. I _am_ a gangster. A thug. I don't know exactly when, but somewhere along the line I started behaving like one, thinking like one, building my empire out of grit and muscle alone. Ugh, I forgot to use my brain. When did that happen?" She pops open the bottle, taking a swig, "I'll tell you when. Isabella. I didn't used to be so stupid. But Isabella made me stupid"

"Hawke," deadpans Varric, "I pride myself on being one of your closest friends, but even I have no idea what you're talking about right now"

"It's….bluh. Nevermind, it's complicated." She waves her arm at him, "Look, my point is…my point is everything's gone to shit and I have to be smarter from now on. _We_ have to be smarter from now on. You and me buddy, we're the brains of all the operations"

"Sure, Hawke." His usual charisma is completely absent, a dull grumble in place of his voice, "brains"

Even in her drink-induced stupor Hawke recognizes this. "Hey cheer up man. C'mon. Okay, I'm sorry, I've been talking…talking about myself this whole time. Let's talk about you. How're you holding up man? We haven't talked much since…you know"

It's Varric's turn to down a beer. "I keep going over it in my head, again and again. There were no signs, Hawke, no indications…I still don't know why he did it"

"Mustv'e been all that lyrium. Got to him somehow. I heard that this one time, a guy-"

"Dwarves are immune to lyrium"

"Oh, right. I knew that. I guess maybe he was just a greedy bastard." She catches herself, sheepishly scratching the back of her head. "I'm sorry Varric, that was thoughtless of me"

"S'alright. We're drinking, it's allowed." Hawke looks over to see Varric staring steadfastly into the fire. "A greedy bastard." He enunciates the words like he's tasting them, a revelation that's bitter on the tongue. "My brother is a greedy bastard"

"You two are about _the _most depressing drinkers I have ever seen"

Hawke and Varric simultaneously turn to see Isabella perched on a barstool on the other side of the table.

"How long have you been there?"

"I've been here the entiiire time. Let me tell you, I had to hold my breath to keep from laughing. At least until the end when everything got sad and depressing"

"Wasn't the door locked…?"

"Really? I could pick that lock in my sleep. I made some noise doing it, but you didn't even hear me bring in the stool." She climbs languidly to her feet, sighing like a schoolteacher who has found two students smoking during recess. "You two are sad, I get that. We've all been there. But you're really doing this drinking thing all wrong"

"What are you talking about?"

"All I'm saying is that if you want to feel better, you're drinking the wrong thing"

She clears away the beer bottles, prompting a "hey!" from Hawke, which is more activity than she has engaged in in hours. In place of the beer, Isabella places a large green bottle onto the stone surface.

Varric's breath leaves him. "Is that…"

Isabella nods, smiling gleefully as she holds the bottle over a stained glasses, slowly pouring emerald green liquid until it delicately splashes along the very top. Slowly, carefully, she hands the glass to Hawke.

"Will you do the honors?"

Hawke accepts it, looking dubiously into the remarkably clear depth. She looks up at Isabella, **feeling her inhibition crumble** in the face of that saucy grin.

Her hand lifts almost by its own volition. "I wasn't kidding before," says Hawke, already knowing that she's going to drink, "you make me stupid"

Isabella takes the hand that hold the glass in her own, delicately raising it so that it's poised at Hawke's lips. "And you, gorgeous, you make me smart." Isabella and Hawke tip the contents of the glass into Hawke's mouth.

The alcohol is a searing explosion against her taste buds, curdling like acid all the way down her throat. But Hawke does not grimace, looking into Isabella's eyes the entire time until, faintly, and then strongly, electricity begins to boil at the base of her very being.

"What the hell is in that stuff?"

Isabella opens her mouth to answer, but it happens in slow motion, blurring in and out of focus like Hawke is watching through distorted glass. Her limbs feel warm, but energized, tingling with sudden invigoration, rousing her body from depressed ennui.

Isabella is still talking, her lips are moving but Hawke can't hear her through the haze.

Hawke laughs, "Whut?"

Isabella smiles at her goofy expression. "You silly goose, it's-"

Hawke surges forward, grabbing her doppelganger's face and dragging her into a sloppy kiss.

"By the maker I feel so alive!"

The pirate giggles, neither of them noticing Varric pouring and downing his own glass. "There's a good girl," she says, caressing Hawke's face.

* * *

Waking up naked with Isabella is not as alarming as it once was. In fact Hawke isn't even mildly perturbed. She doesn't have to open her eyes, familiar with the feel and warmth of Isabella draped over her body. It's practically habit by now really; a shameful habit, a nasty habit, but still, sadly a habit.

She opens a single eye.

A cursory glance of her surroundings reveals this is not her home, nor is it Isabella's room in the Hanged Man, nor is it even the apartment of the Blooming Rose (thank the Maker). Her eye stings as the sunlight shines through a nearby window.

"Argh"

She sits up, the blanket pooling at her waist. Isabella grabs for it in her sleep, hogging the covers to ward away Kirkwall's cold. They're lying on a mattress that likely was dragged there recently, differing greatly from the extravagance of the room itself. A closer look reveals that everything is in a state of dilapidation, wrapped in thin coats of dust. The whereabouts of her clothes is a mystery.

Hawke eyes a Tevinter idol in the corner, and groans. She knows whose house this is.

She leaves Isabella in the room, blissfully ensconced in more blankets than anyone needs to stay warm. Hawke covers herself with a sheet, padding through the cold stone floor of the mansion. To her puzzlement there are men and women lining the hall in various states of passed-out. A few girls from the blooming rose, Carta dwarves, a few guardsmen, some elves from Athenril's gang, and oh, there's Athenril herself snoring in the arms of Lady Elegant.

The foyer is the messiest, littered with the unconscious bodies of people Hawke only sort of knows. She steps over them, gingerly making her way to the study just in time to see Fenris drag a giggling, hairy giant of a man, and dump him into the foyer.

"Ah, I see you're awake"

Hawke plops onto one of the couches of his study, where they are alone. "What happened last night?"

He takes a seat on the couch opposite. "Last night you and Isabella showed up uninvited and brought all these…people with you." His gaze is surprisingly unhostile, calm.

"I did?"

"You did"

"I'm surprised to be alive then"

He shrugs. "I figured you were drunk, or otherwise inebriated. Isabella was with you so I can only assume it was due to her negative influence"

"You have no idea"

Fenris smiles at her. It is not much of one, a grudging amusement really, but it is a smile. "If you weren't my employer I might have killed you for ruining my house"

"Yes. About that. Sorry"

He waves his hand. "It was already in poor condition"

"I'll pay for any damages"

"Already squandering your money eh? What happened to taking over the lyrium trade?"

"Maker, how did you find out about that?"

Fenris points behind him with his thumb, "Varric told me." Hawke follows his thumb to Varric passed out on top of a pile of books, clinging to Bianca and grinning like a madman.

"What happened to him?"

"Last night he was yelling that if anyone had a hairier chest than he did ,he would give them one thousand sovereigns. That man I just dragged out almost won"

Hawke leans back, closing her eyes and lapsing into a state of relaxation. She hasn't been able to relax since getting out of the Deep Roads. It is most cathartic. "I can't do anything about the lyrium trade right now. I have the money, but I don't have the means"

"And the Red Irons are finished, from what I've been hearing"

Hawke opens her eyes. "Not finished. Not entirely. I still have a few men, and the elves in the Alienage"

"But no-one else"

"True, I have a plan to rectify that which, incidentally, will require your help"

"Oh? What do you have in mind?"

"I'll show you…just not now. Let me sit here for a while. You got any food?"

"I suggest you go to your own house for that"

"Ugh, fine," she makes as if to get to her feet.

"But you're not going anywhere until you help me get these people out of my house"

Hawke makes a long frustrated sigh, slumping back into the chair.

* * *

Building an army is no easy business, and while Hawke has had some experience doing it, she has never had to build one from scratch. After all, she had inherited the Red Irons from Meeran, and all additions after that were the result of alliances and recruitment.

It was a shaky foundation to her vast organization, and perhaps because of this her empire had fallen so quickly. If she wants to keep doing business then she had to do it smart, which means making investments; playing with money. Her brain had always been her greatest weapon, and somewhere along the line the brute power afforded her by blood magic made her forget that.

Well no longer.

She immediately goes about fixing up her properties, grudgingly raising the rent to earn better revenue from the refugees. It is sad, but still a better deal than many of those people will ever get. After that she buys up businesses. Fishing, textiles, a mine called the Bone Pit; pretty much anything she can think of, anything to get more money coming in.

But Kirkwall is a dangerous place, and if anyone wants to be powerful there they have to have more than just some business interests. What she needs is more muscle. Mercenaries are fine, as are elvish thieves and assassins, but for what Hawke has in mind, there has to be a bigger impact. She has to send everyone a message; that she is not to be messed with. And since apparently killing a whole bunch of Coterie isn't a viable option (yet) she has to settle for something else.

Which is why she is currently at the Wounded Coast with Aveline and Fenris.

"This is a terrible idea"

"Don't be so negative. I brought an interpreter"

"Is that supposed to be me?" asks Fenris, "because I also think this is a bad idea"

"I didn't ask you to criticize my plans! Just…tell them what I'm saying alright?"

"Fine"

It is with a sigh and a weary heart that Aveline follows Hawke and Fenris into the Tal Vashoth camp, whereupon they are greeted, to the surprise of nobody, with immediate hostility.

The first group of Tal Vashoth, a trio of spear-brandishing giants, are knocked harmlessly away with a gravity well.

"Tell them we come in peace Fenris!"

"I did!"

"Tell them louder!"

"Argh!" He shouts out a string of unintelligible syllables, to no effect. One of the Ta Vashoth scrambles to his feet and lunges, only Fenris to catch his wrists. The elf backhands the former Qunari, shouting the syllables like a litany, over and over in his face.

The impact catches the Tal Vashoth's attention, and as his fellows are rushing to attack he holds up his hand to stop them.

And to Aveline's surprise they actually do stop, slowing to a halt at his side. Other Tal Vashoth scramble into the clearing, running down from the hills and sprinting along the sand, surrounding them on all sides with swords and spears at the ready. They withhold from attacking though, following the example of their pacific contemporary. Their faces betray no emotion, but Hawke gets the impression that they are confused.

The peace-calling Tal Vashoth stands to full height, dwarfing Fenris. He utters something in Qunlat, raising his spear.

"What does he say?"

"He wants to know why you have sought out the Tal Vashoth"

"Tell him I came to offer them a new purpose"

"What? Are you crazy!?"

"Just tell him!"

"It's stupid!"

"FENRIS!"

"Fine!"

He shouts Hawke's message.

The Tal Vashoth quiet down, becoming unsettlingly still. The sound of the breeze is audible over the stillness as all of them intently watch Hawke. Aveline nudges her.

"By Andraste" she whispers, leaning in so that not even Fenris can hear them," how the fuck did you know that would work?"

"I guessed," Hawke whispers back.

Aveline nudges her again, harder this time. "What!?" she hisses, "you _guessed_?"

"It was an **educated** guess. Now shut up! Something's happening"

Their feverish whispering is cut short as one towering Tal Vashoth pushes his way through the crowd. He steps forward, moving in odd halting motions that belie the elegant strides of his race, until he stands directly before Hawke. He wears the encumbering garment of a Serabaas, iron collar chained fast to his shoulders. The only things that mark him as a rebellious Tal Vashoth are his fully-grown horns.

Aveline makes to draw her sword, but Hawke stills her hand.

"How arrogant must you be," rumbles the Serabaas, "to think you can give Tal Vashoth purpose?"

"I'm surprised. A Serabaas"

"That is a title that no longer applies to me"

"Then what should I call you?"

"I am Tal Vashoth"

"Well that is what the Qunari would call you. They would also call you Serabaas. Can I call you that, so long as you still allow them to name you even in rebellion?"

The Serabaas makes a displeased grunt. "Why have you come here?"

"I have already said: I want to give you purpose"

"What purpose?"

Hawke runs her gaze over the ranks of ragged former-Qunari, turning around and showing the Serabaas her back, showing the Tal Vashoth that she isn't afraid of him. Finally she turns back to him. "You are weak," she says, gesturing to the lot of them, "No match for the Antaam, even in your numbers. The Arishok will eventually destroy all of you, the Ben Hasrath will either reeducate or kill you, either way they will not be merciful"

"We know this"

"You are Tal Vashoth!" She yells, nudging Fenris to translate. "You waste away in the wild with no purpose, no organization; no better than savages with a purpose no greater that stealing like common bandits!" Hawke spits for effect.

Fenris hesitates, looking at Hawke with unbridled incredulity. She cocks her head, widening her eyes at him with angry insistence. Unable to believe what he is doing, Fenris shouts out the translation. The Tal Vashoth begin to growl, murmuring angrily amongst themselves; too civilized by far, even in exile.

Hawke goes on. "You are weak! But if you join me I can give you a purpose, strength! Outside the Qun! Join me and you can be strong!"

The Serabaas looks to his murmuring brethren before finally, and with a ponderous finality, falling his eyes back on Hawke. "Let us talk, crazy human"

* * *

Naturally it takes more than just a speech to get the Tal Vashoth on her side. Nothing is that easy, sadly. She has to sit down with the Serabaas, as well as a great deal of Tal Vashoth sitting on the sidelines, hacking out some kind of mutually-beneficial deal. On the first day she returns to Kirkwall empty-handed, but she persists, dragging Fenris back to the Wounded Coast every day to hack out a deal.

She offers food, shelter, women, briefly thinks about giving them money then thinks better of it. The Tal-Vashoth grow accustomed to her presence, regarding her almost as if she were an over-eager little girl. The smarter ones remeber how she killed their brethren, and leave her alone.

It isn't until she actually brings them samples of what they can enjoy in her organization that they relent. Fine cooking, new weapons, trinkets, baubles, and some toys that she doesn't tell them are for children. Of course the toys are a hit. They sit down to negotiate.

In the end, not all of them are on board, but Hawke returns to Kirkwall with a retinue of forty Tal Vashoth, confident that more will follow. She puts them in well-spaced housing, constructed outside of Kirkwall near the mountains, and well away from the Qunari compound at the docks.

They are supplied with plenty of food, and material goods to keep them satisfied, hiring a requisition officer among her merchants to keep them satisfied. In return, not only does she have a strong armed force at the ready, but also a status symbol. She outfits them and promenades them across Hightown, lording them over the lords and ladies like giant hulking trophies.

And ah! How nice it is to see the jealousy in their faces, their slow realization that the return of the Amells means more than the return of an old family, but also the arrival of a powerful new contender.

Everybody knew that Hawke found untold riches in the Deep Roads, but other than that she was shrouded in mystery. To the nobles of Kirkwall, it was rather like finding out that the new kid on the block had a hand in the machinations of the city all along. Rumors of her underworld dealings spread like wildfire. Her alliance with the Carta, her prominence in Lowtown and the Alienage in particular; there are even whisperings behind closed doors that she employs apostates hidden in the sewers.

But these are usually dismissed. I mean can you imagine? How ridiculous.

* * *

Tolliver the net-maker is being shaken down. It isn't out of the ordinary, but it _is_ always a nuisance, especially since every single thug that extorts protection money from him and his neighbors comes from a different racket. This makes the other extortionists mad, and so they beat him up and he has to pay _them_ too, which means the original extortionists beat him up.

Who would bother over the Fereldan quarter of Kirkwall anyway? This town of beggars and refugees? Not even the Coterie likes sticking its business in there, precisely because there is little business to be had.

The people Tolliver pays protection to are the lowest of the low; scumbags too dirty and pathetic to be part of an actual gang. There are, however, a lot of them, and they fight tooth and nail for every scrap of territory they can get.

"What's this?" asks the brawny gentleman, holding up a pair of copper coins. Three smaller thugs shuffle their feet at his back.

"That's all I have for this week"

"Can't be. What about the money you set aside to feed your family? Give me that"

"I can't. That's really all I made in the last two days"

Smack! A meaty fist thuds into Tolliver's left eye, cutting the skin and throwing him to the ground. It'll swell up nasty in a few minutes, but it's nothing Tolliver isn't already used to.

"Are you giving me lip, net-boy?" the smaller thugs poke him with their feet. "If I wanted your attitude I would ask you for it!"

Tolliver curls up on the floor as a foot, he isn't sure whose, connects with his midsection. Not for the first time he thinks that maybe he should have stayed in Fereldan. At least there he would be dead and not have to suffer indignity upon indignity. Then again, this is probably only marginally better than having his face eaten off by darkspawn, there is that.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Yeah? Well apparently not sorry enough if all you could scrounge up for me is two lousy coppers." Another kick to his midsection. The smaller cronies wince in sympathy, but don't dare signal their disapproval. Survival in the poor quarters of Kirkwall means tailing your wagon to some brutal stars.

"Tell you what Tolliver. We'll settle this. I can be reasonable. I'll just have to take something of yours of commensurate value to the protection we're providing." A chuckle. The cronies nervously chuckle along. "So what've ya got Tolliver?"

"N-nothing…I have nothing"

"Now, now. I'm sure that's not true. One of my boys followed you home the other night, y'see. Seems you have a nice sword hanging over your mantelpiece. I could take that. Or those books you got. Or maybe…maybe I could take your sister. Tevinters ought to pay good money for her"

"Wait, what? You can't be serious." A punch to the jaw, knocking out several teeth.

"Dead serious, boyo"

"Come on," whispers Tolliver, voice slurring from a swollen cheek. "Please…I can get you the money. Really I can. Just…just give me more time"

"Seems to me you've been given plenty of time already." Tolliver is hauled up to his feet, "C'mon now, let's take a walk shall we?"

Tolliver struggles, but is given a smart punch to the gut. He folds, unable to resist as they haul him through the back alleys of the slum. His neighbor storekeepers look ahead, forcing themselves to ignore what's happening. He knows better than to ask for help, and they no better than to offer it. His feet trail against the dirty cobblestones, skin scraping raw against the grit of old cobbles. He is carried slack, his head hanging low, his eye swelling already.

A feeling of true and utter hopelessness hits him, unlike any despair he has felt before. Every person, no matter how strong, have their breaking point. It is with little shame that sobs leak out of his throat, emotion erupting from his chest and amplifying in the form of a few tears sliding down his cheek, leaving trails in his dirt-stricken face.

When they stop, it doesn't occur to him that they haven't walked nearly far enough to have arrived at his house. It's only when the big man opens his mouth that he realizes something strange is going on.

"Get out of the way, elf"

Elf? Here? Tolliver lifts his head to the sight of a very finely-dressed young man standing primly in their way. He wouldn't call the stranger an elf per-se, but certainly elf-like. He possesses the delicate beauty inherent in most elves; large eyes and perfectly hairless face. The only thing missing is the pointy ears.

"Why?" asks the not-quite-elf, "Am I interrupting something?"

"He's dressed nice, boss," says one of the men holding Tolliver's arm, "might have some cash on 'im"

The big man smiles. "Is that right? You got money on you, knife-ear? Master been rewarding you a little too much for services rendered?" He laughs. If the stranger is afraid, or even offended, he shows no sign. He even smiles.

The big man grimaces at the lack of intimidation. "What you smiling about boy?"

All of the big man's bravado disappears as soon as two hulking Qunari step out from a side alleyway. The big man may be big, but the Qunari are massive; their domineering presence amplified by the light of the alley giving them the appearance of demonic silhouettes. Tolliver's eyes boggle at the sight.

The elf smiles again, lifting his finger as if remembering a point he had forgotten to mention earlier. "I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself. My name is Feynriel, from the Hawke Coalition, new owners of the refugee slums." One of the Qunari cracks his knuckles. "I suggest you put the man down, sers. The Coalition provides protection in these neighborhoods now"

The littler thugs waste no time dropping Tolliver and running with all speed in the other direction. Their boss hesitates, which is all the Ta Vashoth need to rush over and pin him to a wall.

"Please take this one to the new headquarters," says Feynriel, getting a simple nod in reply from one of the Tal Vashoth, "there;sa use for everything after all, even trash." It jostles the big man away from the wall and walks him down the length of the alley, keeping a painful grip on his wrists.

The elf helps up Tolliver, "Are you alright?"

"Y-yes," Tolliver loses his balance, grabbing a fistful of Feynriel's tunic to keep up, "No. Haven't eaten in a while"

"Here," says Feynriel, lifting Tolliver again. When the human is on his feet, Feynriel purses his lips at the dust staining on his clothes. Oh well. Shrugging, he pulls out a purse and hands Tolliver a few silvers.

"What? I…what's going on?"

Feynriel straightens to a businessman's posture. "Nothing at all. The Coalition is merely looking out for the best interests of our new partners"

"Partners?"

"Oh yes," Feynriel smiles, "Isabelle Hawke has some big plans for this neighborhood"

"I…wha?"

Tolliver slumps to the ground.

"Oh dear. He's passed out. Do you think we could-?" The remaining Tal Vashoth heaves a sigh and easily throws Tolliver over his shoulder. "There we go. Be careful with this one. If we want this to work then we need allies in the community"

"Whatever," drawls the Tal Vashoth.

* * *

Nobles gossip too much, Merrill thinks. They are out in force, as if they don't have houses and taverns in which to congregate and gossip. Their talk dwindles into conspiratorial muttering as she gets close, but she can still hear them, and the subject on everybody's tongue is Isabelle Hawke.

"Her servant, do you think?"

"No, no. That's a Dalish. Don't you see the markings?"

"What do you think she's doing here?"

Merrill ignores them for the most part, until a new discussion rises from a huddled trio of oddly swarthy-looking nobles.

"I heard she has a lover. A pirate," says the first.

"A pirate?"

"Yes, yes." Says the third, "I heard that the pirate was actually her twin sister. Looks exactly like her"

"Now, now. An incestuous relationship with her twin sister who is _also_ a pirate? That is too ridiculous"

"Perhaps," admits the third. "But this Hawke is a mystery, and they say that where there's smoke there's fire"

Merrill's ears burn, not because of the scandalous nature of the discussion but because she knows exactly what they are talking about. It's not like Hawke was doing a very good job of hiding it, and Isabella, though hesitant to tell Merrill anything about her romantic escapades involving Hawke, became remarkably loose-lipped when plied with enough alcohol.

What she heard was heart-breaking. Isabella's mumbles assertions that what they had wasn't serious didn't help assuage Merrill's despondency.

A smiling Bodahn lets her into the house, but asks her to wait in the library while Hawke finishes a meeting in the study. This too is easy to overhear. Perhaps Merrill's ears are simply too sensitive.

"What did you come to me for Ser Sauffren?" Hawke's voice is clear eve muffle. Her desk must be right on the other side of the fireplace.

"I have heard that you make loans to people who need them"

"I am hardly the only money-lender in Kirkwall"

"Yes, but you are an unknown, and being unknown means you are likely discrete"

"Perhaps"

"Also…I am not so desperate that I would go to the Coterie"

"Hmm." A pause. A comment like that would win him favor, though Merrill doubts he knows that. She can envision Hawke turning to some documents on the table, glasses perched on her nose. Purely for show of course, Hawke's vision is perfect. "How many sovereigns did you need?"

"Seven thousand"

A low whistle, "That is a lot of gold. Care to tell me what it's for?"

"I…I would rather not"

Another pause. Hawke is likely staring at the man, making him uncomfortable, leaning back ad crossing her legs like the Carta bosses do. Maybe she sighs, shakes her head, _tsks_ in a chastising manner. Finally: "I have heard of you Sauffren. The merchants in Lowtown know you as a man of integrity. I will give you this money, and I won't even insist that you tell me what it's for"

"I'm grateful"

"Not so fast." A thump. Has Hawke slammed a fist on the table? Thumped the end of her staff to the ground? "I have some conditions. I'll give you the money. But if you cannot pay me back in a month, with interest…well, I _am_ a loan shark. I'm sure you can imagine what I'll do then"

"O-of course"

"Consider yourself grounded as well. Don't try to leave the city while carrying my money. I'll have people watching you"

"A-alright"

A relaxing of the shoulders. We're all friends here. "Relax Ser Sauffren. I won't do anything untoward if you can't pay. I won't break your ones or kill your family. But I will take your house, and it is a nice house indeed. Easily worth twice what I'm lending you. So…" a clear of the throat, "Anyway. If you'll sign this contract…"

"Erm, yes. Of course"

"And sign there…and initial there. Thank you, happy doing business with you"

The doors open in the next room, and Merrill hurries into the hallway, just in time to watch an ashen-faced nobleman shamble out of the office. Hawke stands smiling in the doorway, the hulking Serabaas glowering behind her like a bodyguard. The finery of his clothes do not suit him very well; paired with his horns he looks more like a litigious devil than a Coalition Lieutenant.

And behind _him_ is a young elf woman making furious notes in a journal.

Hawke brightens at the sight of her friend. "Merrill! When did you get here?"

"Just now. Er, are you busy? I can come back later if you want"

"What?" Hawke follows Merrill's gaze to the odd twosome behind her, "Oh, no, not busy at all. Please stay, things have been so hectic. I haven't seen you in forever!"

She turns to dismiss the Serabaas, who simply nods and walks out of the room and house, presumably to venture all the way back to what the people are calling the Coalition Qunari Compound. Hawke is always quick to point out that it is a _Tal Vashoth_ compound, but sadly not many people really see the difference.

The elf making notes continues to do just that: make notes.

"Flora?" says Hawke, sighing as the elf still goes on writing, "Flora? The meeting's over, you can stop transcribing now"

The pen hesitates. Flora looks up with wide doe eyes. "W-what? Really?" She takes stalk of her surroundings, straightening at the sight of Merill. "Oh! I….yes of course, how foolish of me." She gathers her things, depositing the journal in a shelf back in Hawke's office. She bows excessively as she leaves the manor, making vague placating noises. As the door opens Merrill can see that the Serabaas is outside waiting for her.

More or less alone, the two of them walk back into the library. Hawke beckons for Bodahn to make some tea. After taking a seat she looks at Merrill, meeting her eyes for a few seconds before smiling pleasantly.

"Well? What do you think of the new house? Mother has been over the moon! Decorating and rearranging; it's driving me mad! And Carver even came down to visit." Hawke laughs, breaking her usual protocol and swinging a leg over the arm of the couch. Bodahn brings them both a cup of tea and departs.

"It's nice," says Merrill, pleasantly surprised at Hawke's odd joviality. "You seem…different"

"Do I? I suppose I'm just in my element," she springs to her feet, pacing excitedly, "I mean, things were pretty bad for a moment there, but I've rallied! Don't you think I've rallied?"

"Sure," Merrill laughs.

Hawke plops down on the couch right next to Merrill. "I'm sorry. I've been talking about myself. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"Not really. I just wanted to see you"

"Oh Merrill, you are too sweet." She laughs a little, "One year ago we would have been at your house reviewing your blood forms. Do you remember that?"

"When it was just the two of us and no Feynriel? Yes, I loved those times most of all"

"Wanted me all to yourself did you?" Hawke laughs again, unheeding of Merrill's bashful grin. She quiets down, leaning her head against the back of the couch and gazing in an oddly soulful manner into Merrill's eyes. "I miss our little lessons. Sometimes I feel bad that I don't have anything left to teach you…"

"Maybe I could teach you a few things sometime"

Hawke perks up, "Oh?"

"Yes. Would you like that?"

"Yes! Absolutely! I feel like without the lessons I never get to see you anymore, so…" Hawke waves her hand bashfully, "you know what I mean"

"Yes. I do. How about now?"

"What?"

"A lesson. I have one ready for you now"

Really, Merrill thinks, for all of Hawke's maturity, and for all of Hawke's intelligence, she sure can be childish. Gullible, adorable, (Argh) but childish. This is especially frustrating since Hawke has regarded Merrill as a child for as long as they have known each other. Being student and teacher certainly hadn't helped in that regard, but Merrill had graduated as it were. Hawke had said as much.

She ushers Hawke to the desk, moving in a dazed autopilot, beckoning for the human woman to take a seat. She draws a diagram on a piece of parchment. She leans over, just barely restraining herself from running her hands over the contours of Hawke's inviting shoulders.

"Do you recognize these symbols?"

"I don't"

"They're Dalish." She leans over, casually placing a hand on Hawke's shoulder so that her arm is effectively around her.

"Oh I can see it now, they're like you're tattoos." Hawke turns her head, her smile faltering a little when she realizes that Merrill's face is so close. Merrill doesn't react, looking intently at the parchment. Hawke hesitantly looks to the parchment as well. "What do you call it?" she asks, "vallaslin?"

"Yes. These are the designs found in blood writing"

"What do they say?"

There are simpler ways to seduce people. Yes, indeed there are. But when it comes to Hawke, Merrill can never be too sure. The woman has a way of ruthlessly shutting down romantic advances, and there are very few of those. Despite her beauty, not many people try anything with her; if they aren't intimidated by her power (be it magical or financial), then they're intimidated by the sheer force of her attitude. In fact, of all the people who tried doing anything with Hawke, the only one who ever succeeded was Isabella.

But then again Hawke acts weird around Isabella. Really weird. That whole relationship is weird.

So…maybe weird is the way to go.

"This symbol," says Merril, gently guiding Hawke's finger to a curving figure, "is the image for fire in the old tongue." She guides Hawke's hand to another symbol, "This is water. And this…this is-"

"Earth?"

Merrill's eyelids lower, "No," she mutters, "that is the symbol for lust"

The elder mage stiffens ever so slightly, "What kind of spell is this?"

"A dalish one," whispers Merrill, keeping her voice low, intimate, "now pay attention"

Hake falters, her mood shifting from optimistic joviality to hesitant confusion. This is…different than what she is used to; different than what she has come to expect in Merrill.

"O-okay"

If Merrill didn't know Hawke so very well then this would have been terribly difficult to pull off. She knows that Hawke is socially awkward; often using peripheral aspects of her personality to relate to other people to shield herself from rejection. Business is a suitable tool after all; a reason for people to rely on her, to respect her. But in Merrill's case it had been their lessons. And without the lessons, Hawke didn't have an excuse to spend time with her, had no idea how to approach her in a casual context. So she didn't. Couldn't. Not as of late.

Truth be told, Hawke is a hopelessly shy person.

Why is Merrill the only one who sees that?

"And this symbol here is the image for affection"

"Okay…" Hawke swallows, and Merrill feels a surge of vindication at so thoroughly knocking the wind from the older woman's sails. "Merrill you seem, um," she shifts uncomfortably, stiffening almost imperceptibly when her shoulder grazes Merrill's chest, "different"

"I'm not sure what you could mean"

"Jeez, you're…I don't know how to put it. You're being very…adult, I guess?"

"I _am_ an adult, Hawke," Merrill says, a bit testily.

"I, y-yeah, I didn't mean to imply-," she turns, visibly surprised when she sees Merrill leaning over her, meeting her gaze with an unusual intensity. Their faces are so close. "-that you…were…" She gulps again. "Um…"

Merrill raises her hand to delicately cup Hawke's chin. Hawke doesn't look away, doesn't react; just keeps Merrill's gaze. She seems surprised, but pliant, lips opening in an "oh" of either surprise or realization. And as Merrill lowers her face closer to Hawke's, she can't help but marvel at the way Hawke's eyelids seem to flutter unconsciously closed.

Is that a go-ahead?

It doesn't matter. Merrill closes the distance between Hawke's lips and hers, pressing them softly together. It is a spectacular sensation, and for a few seconds Merrill is over the moon, until she realizes that Hawke isn't kissing her back.

She backs away, waiting for Hawke to open her eyes. When she does they look at each other, Merrill's face barely betraying her impatient expectation.

"Merrill…"

The elf takes her hand. "Let me show you something, Hawke"

She leads her away, out of the study through the main hall, up the stairs where Leandra watches, hidden in her own room, as her daughter awkwardly, diffidently, is led by the smaller elf into the main bedroom.

Sleeping with Isabella is one thing. Animal. Instinctual. _Familiar_. This is…this is…

Merrill reaches up for another kiss, pulling them down onto the bed.

"Isabelle…"

This is…

* * *

Isabella shoots up in bed, the prostitute beside her bolting upright.

"What? What is it?"

Isabella takes a few deep breaths.

"I…nothing. Just a really weird dream." She shakes her head vigorously, as if trying to get water out of her ears.

After a moment's consideration she fishes out a few silvers from the bedside drawer.

"Be a darling and fetch me some whiskey will you? If anyone bothers you, just say you work for the Coalition"

As the prostitute leaves Isabella falls back onto the bed in a huff.

"What the balls was _that_?"

* * *

Hawke wishes the world would stand still for a few seconds to make some goddamn sense. She leans against the upper railing of some noble's mansion, looking down from the gilded entrance at the gathered masses. Merrill would probably hate this as much as she does.

Merrill…

Hawke's mind wanders, naturally recalling images of her former student leaning over her, guiding her, kissing her; her face so uncharacteristically serious. She whispered her name over and over as she ran her hands over Hawke's naked body, repeating each syllable like a mantra: _Isabelle, Isabelle_. It was like…

Hawke had never felt so…worshipped.

Loved?

Merrill never said as much, ravishing her teacher until Hawke was too tired to do anything but sleep. When she woke up Merrill was gone.

Hawke blushes at the memory. How had she never noticed? Why had she let Merrill get as far as she did? She thinks about seeing Merrill again and shivers. Will it be awkward? Will they have sex again?

Does Hawke even like Merrill that way?

She decides to put it out of her mind. Thinking about Merrill is only going to make spending time here even less enjoyable. Her eyes refocus; the crowds of fawning nobility below her make her skin crawl, dancing and smiling and hiding behind dainty epithets and money. She hates them all, but tolerates them for two reasons.

Reason number one: Leandra.

Hawke has never seen her like this before, so very much in her element. She had always told Hawke and her siblings that she never regretted leaving the gilded trappings of the Amell household to be with Malcolm, but watching her now, talking excitedly to a circle of nobles all hanging on her every word, Hawke can't help but think that maybe some small part of Leandra was lying the entire time.

Well, whatever.

Hawke smiles. Seeing her mother happy is always a good thing. Leandra catches her eye from across the room and waves, beckoning for her to come over. Hawke waves back, shaking her head that no, she would rather not.

Leandra huffs, beckoning more aggressively. With a resigned groan Hawke puts on a forced smile and makes her way over.

"Isabelle, I want you to meet," she lists off a bunch of names that Hawke will soon forget. She's already memorized all the names in this room worth knowing, and none of these people are them.

They are all extremely interested in Hawke's exploits, asking her if some of the tales of her adventures are true. Hawke musters as much charm as she can, not for their benefit but her mother's.

"I assure you, I did not kill three dragons. Just one"

"No, I am in no way associated with the Carta"

"Thank you, sir. I actually found these earrings in an old thaig in the Deep Roads beneath the Northern Mountains. No, I'm not kidding"

"You surprise me, I didn't know anyone knew about how I killed all those people"

Finally Leandra takes pity on her and signals that she is allowed to go. Hawke excuses herself most courteously and moves with all speed away from the crowd. She bristles as she hears Leandra admonish a young man for watching her posterior too attentively.

Craving more agreeable company, she seeks out the members of tonight's entourage, seeking comfort in their mutual discomfort.

Reason number two: business.

"Why have you made me come here? There is nothing to gain except for perhaps the food." Serabaas holds up a piece of cloth that Hawke recognizes as a torn piece of the house's drapes, crudely re-fashioned into a sack to carry a ludicrous amount of cookies. "You must have more of these made for the compound"

"Put that away," she hisses. He easily conceals it into his robes, not at all perturbed by her apparent ire. "And I had you come here because you are one of my lieutenants. This is PR"

"P…R?"

"Public relations. It's…nevermind. Just walk around and try to look intimidating"

He growls. "So I am to parade myself about like a tamed animal, to show the other humans that you have conquered a great Qunari. Is that it?"

"Yes. Obviously. That's the point. And if you do this for me I'll make you all the cookies you want. There's more than one kind and they're all delicious." Serabaas hesitates, visibly torn between his pride and his newfound obsession with crumbly treats. "Besides, what do you care what a bunch of humans think anyway?"

Serabaas considers his sack of cookies, taking a few out and throwing them in his mouth. He grumbles. In great staggering motions he moves back into the throng, glowering dramatically at the nobles as they make a wide berth for his passage. Any who try actually talking to him are given the silent treatment. The Hawke coat of arms is boldly displayed on his robes.

"He's remarkably agreeable for a Qunari"

Hawke turns to her second apprentice, now Anders' apprentice she supposes. "Qunari are people who follow the Qun. Serabaas is a Tal Vashoth"

Feynriel grimaces. "You know what I mean"

"How've you been doing?"

"There are a remarkable number of nobles in dire financial straits, and they are more than ready to talk to a representative from the Coalition, elf or no"

"You're taking to this much easier than I thought"

"Yes, well. Making deals is easy when you know how to talk to people. That, and if you have a couple Qunari bodyguards behind you. Sorry, Tal Vashoth bodyguards"

"Don't sell yourself short. You've a talent for this. And you have no idea how short a supply of able-minded lieutenants I have"

He smiles bashfully, actually kicking at the floor. "Thanks boss. I'll write up a report for everything I learned here tonight"

"Good. You can go home if you want"

"If it's all the same to you, I'm going to stick around for a while"

"Getting a taste for Kirkwall's finer elements? Take care you don't get spoiled"

Feynriel's eyes drift across the room. Hawke follows his gaze to a beautiful woman in a gorgeous evening dress. She's hanging off the arm of an overweight noble, stuffed with hor d'ourves and half asleep on his feet. Her fingers wiggle in a saucy wave in Feynriel's direction.

"You could say that"

Hawke wants to laugh and grimace at the same time. "Bah. Off with you, horny elf!"

"Yes boss!"

Hawke sighs, ready to leave the party and settle down on her favorite armchair with a cup of Bodahn's tea. Ah, yes. _That_ would be spectacular. With the relief of a person who knows they're done with the day, Hawke makes her way through the throng, grabbing a drink from a passing tray and sipping it, stepping gingerly up the stairs as she does so.

"Serah Hawke"

A hand takes her wrist, though not tightly, and it easily lets go when she yanks her hand back. A handsome man with green eyes and dark clothes smiles at her from the foot of the stairs.

"Do I know you? And please don't say "no, but I know you""

The man chuckles, an affable, charming laughter. "Then I won't. Though truth be told I really do not know you." His voice is deep, skewed. An Antivan accent. "I thought that perhaps I did, though I am pleased to be proved wrong"

If he expects a coy response then he is disappointed, smiling a tad awkwardly at Hawke's unamused glare.

He clears his throat, "You look lovely tonight, Lady Hawke. That dress suits you"

"Thank you, ser, though I disdain having to wear it"

"This I can understand. My own clothes reflect poorly on my taste, no? I much prefer these unremarkable blacks to the ostentatious plumage of the nobility"

Despite herself Hawke chuckles, "Indeed. What did you say your name was again?" She offers a hand.

He takes it, bowing and planting a kiss on her knuckles, though not lingering for long enough that she has reason to take offense. "I didn't, though I will happily do so now. My name is Castillon"

Fireworks go off in Hawke's head, though she maintains her composure. Her smile is only marginally affected. "I have heard that name before"

"Oh? All good things I hope"

"Nothing too terrible." She sips her drink, keeping a severe eye on the Antivan's expression. "Earlier you said you thought you knew me. What did you mean by that?"

It's his turn to hide his true expression. "Oh, you know. I meet many women in my travels, many beautiful women. You bear a passing resemblance to one"

"Indeed? What brings you to Kirkwall, Castillon?"

"Oh, just here for the weekend actually, there's a-" He is interrupted when a tune starts playing, violins and cellos harmonizing to coax the nobility onto the dance floor. Castillon smiles at her, holding an inviting hand. "Could I interest you in a dance?"

At that moment Serabaas tromps his way through the crowd, uncaring of how many people he jostles, finally coming to a stop behind Hawke.

"I am done here…" he eyes Castillon, "_boss_," he hisses the word, "the noises do not agree with me"

Castillon's composure cracks somewhat, and his mouth flops open for half a second before he regains himself. "You keep interesting company, my lady"

Hawke smiles at the Antivan. "I apologize, but I must decline your offer. My associate here is feeling a little under the weather"

"Of course. Until next time, Lady Hawke." He bows.

Castillon retreats into the crowd, already finding a dance partner in a young noble girl. Serabaas and Hawke watch him go.

"Who was that?" asks the former Tal Vashoth.

"Friend of a friend"

Turning, she ascends the stairs, Serabaas tromping after her. She nods at her guards as she passes, men and women with concealed weapons, dressed in finery for the express purpose of surreptitiously keeping an eye on her less combat-oriented affiliates.

"Will you be killing this "friend of a friend?""

Perceptive bugger. "Why do you ask?"

"I recognize that expression. You want that man dead"

"Castillon? Yeah, I do"


	8. Chapter 8

Darktown. A gloomy underplace. In the dark of night everything seems still, and only then because everyone knows better than to make a sound. Who knows what might lurk in the darkness? The Carta dwarves always on the prowl, body-snatching Tevinters, blood mages conducting their dark rituals in the sewers; no, everyone knows better than to walk alone at night in Darktown. Everyone knows better than to call attention to themselves when the moon is up.

Even agents of the Coterie allow themselves only a small fire pitted in the hollow of a tin barrel, the kind Antivan crows use to carry around acids. It makes for a good fireplace.

Cecilia Bryce watches the fire. Her senses are on high alert, always scanning for the faintest movement in the shadows, listening for the lightest noise. Her fellows are huddled around the flames, more relaxed than she, but no less aware of their surroundings.

"We shaking down the alienage for protection tonight?"

One of the thugs shakes his head; a stocky, muscled creature of a man. He could have been a dwarf if only he wasn't just five inches too tall. "Nah. They have Coalition support. Ain't nothing we can do to them without pissing off the higher-ups"

"That's ridiculous. We're the Coterie! Why are we so worried about some upstart gang?"

Dwarf man snorts. "You want to know what I think? They're probably not as strong as they want people to believe. Just a bunch of thugs throwing their Qunari muscle around"

"You think?"

"Yeah. Think about it. They showed up out of nowhere about a month ago, no rackets, no manpower, and overnight they just become one of the largest players in Kirkwall? No way that's legitimate. Someone is pulling the wool over our eyes, and we're all buying it"

"I don't know. Have you seen those Qunari troops of theirs? They say they're all outcasts, thrown out of the main force for being too violent"

"Savages, the lot of them. What do you think Cecilia?"

Both Coterie lieutenants look to her. Out of the three of them, Cecilia is the only one who has been in direct contact with the Coterie Don, a fact that gives her no shortage of prestige.

"We're here to follow orders," she says, "not discuss politics"

That shuts them up for a few minutes, but the silence drags on and their contact shows no signs of showing up anytime soon. In the distance they can hear someone urinating on a wall.

"It just doesn't make a whole lot of sense is all I'm saying-"

"Sssshhh! Shut up!" Cecilia covers his mouth with one of her bloody gloved hands. The silence is eerie.

"What is it?" whispers dwarf man.

"I heard something"

"It's probably nothing," muffles the other lieutenant against Cecilia's glove.

"This is Darktown. It's never nothing"

"Indeed not"

The three of them turn to regard the source of the voice. There are two figures, and they had to have been remarkably stealthy to have crept up on them with so much armor. It shines brilliantly, so radically at odds with their ratty surroundings, gleaming in the light of the fire. All three lieutenants become wary. Fancy though the new arrivals may appear, Templars are as likely to kill you as anything else in Darktown, and they happen to be very good at it.

"I don't wish to be here any longer than necessary," says the speaker, a tall man with wolf's eyes. His head is shaved, and he sports a full, if somewhat gangly beard. "Do you have the package?"

His voice barely avoids being emotionless, making Cecilia uneasy in its stilted delivery. But she is not one to be trifled with either "Right here"

She snaps her fingers, and dwarf man produces a small chest. The lead Templar indicates for his associate to open it; not a smart move in a place like this, but Cecilia isn't one to reprimand a Templar commander.

The open chest reveals faint blue glow; Lyrium in its distilled, liquid form. A small jangle sounds as the Templar inspects the vials, lifting layers of the case to make sure everything is there, per the agreement.

"It's all there," she says.

"No offense but I don't trust a band of ruffians to be truthful in these matters"

After the helmeted Templar finishes counting, he nods at his superior, who nods back. Reaches into his pack, the underling pulls out a sizeable coinpurse. It bulges and clinks in bloated over-capacity. Cecilia motions for Dwarf man to take it. His arm strains to contain its weight; more sovereigns than most people ever see.

"I trust our business here is concluded?"

"Not yet. I don't trust you either." Cecilia glares at the Templars as her men count the coin. They stand there, patient, assured in their superiority. Wolf-eyes stares back at Cecilia. It is creepy, but she has seen worse things. Terrible things. A creepy Templar has nothing on Isabelle Hawke. This is how Cecilia deals with her fears nowadays: nothing can be worse than Isabelle Hawke.

Finally Dwarf man nods at her.

"Our business is concluded," She says, "we'll let you know the location of the next drop"

He smiles. "Can I expect to see your lovely face again? Or will we be dealing with someone else?"

Cecilia sneers. "Since you were so insistent on knowing our supplier, you will be meeting him yourself. Consider yourself lucky, he doesn't typically involve himself in these things personally"

"Oh? To what do I owe this dubious honor?"

Cecilia and her entourage turn to leave. "He's looking for something. He's hoping the Templars can help him find it"

* * *

Overhead, Athenril darts off into the darkness, silent. She has some interesting news for Isabelle Hawke.

* * *

Hawke usually takes her dinner in her office at the newly-constructed Coalition offices; her foremost place of business. It is a large building in the Merchant quarter, and sends a message to anyone who sees it that, "Yes, we are legitimate." But they aren't really, and anyone with half a brain can figure it out.

Still, people who show up at her office have to pretend it is, whether they want a loan (and so many nobles need loans that Hawke could kick herself for not taking up the business before), to hire a mercenary, or need a sound business partner. Everyone has to bow to the queen, and ultimately pretend that the queen's hands aren't stained in blood up to the elbows.

They find it especially unnerving when they show up to her office and find that she is taking her lunch. It is a power play, and a distraction tactic. Negotiations go so much better when your opponent thinks you don't have time for them, and paying more attention to her food than to the person on the other side of the giant stone desk does this perfectly.

There is no need for such dramatics today, for the person joining her for lunch is Anders. The two of them aren't exactly friends, but having him on her side is a serious advantage, and the protection he has thanks to the Coalition has made him safer than ever.

"Do you want to know what I like about Templars?" Hawke announces after swallowing the last of a some kind of cooked pheasant.

Anders glares at her, "Are you really asking me that?"

"The thing I like about the Templars," she continues, "is that they're so predictable. Sure, they may come at you with insurmountable numbers, but at least they're straightforward about it. Not like gangs, or those blood mage covens; that kind of antagonism…it can strike from anywhere. You're never quite sure how to be ready, and in this business you always have to be ready"

"Then get out of the business"

Hawke laughs, shaking her head. "Nevermind. Do any of your contacts have anything to say about Castillon?"

To business then. "For someone as rich as he is, the man is maddeningly elusive"

Hawke taps her fingers on her desk. "So nothing then"

"No"

Hawke's eyebrow twitches as she taps her desk again. "You. Have. Nothing"

If Anders is perturbed he does not show it. "No"

"THENWHAT FUCKING GOOD ARE YOU!?" Objects in the room shake with the imbalance of magical power, shivering in place as if an earthquake has hit. Outside, people waiting to see her grow justa bit more nervous.

Anders does not flinch, and stays silent as Hawke calms herself down, chewing placidly on his food until the floor tops shaking. Hawke settles back into her chair with a huff.

Anders goes on as if nothing has happened. "This is really bothering you huh? Why did you come to me about this anyway? Why aren't you asking Isabella? Or Varric for that matter?"

"Isabella is _not_ to know any of what I'm planning." She hisses, "_None_ of it, do you hear me?"

Anders finishes his meal. "I hear you. But there's no way I can do this alone. There is entirely too much on my plate for me to produce significant results"

"I'll…I'll get some other people on it then. Thank you Anders. Sorry about my little…yeah"

He nods understandingly. He wipes his hands, and departs. He takes the tray with him. Really, with all the money Hawke is throwing his way she had expected he would get used to the notion of servants cleaning up after him. Still, she's glad he's sticking to his principles, even the small ones. After all, principled people are refreshingly predictable.

Which isn't to say Hawke doesn't have her own set of principles; she's just a more ambiguous about what those principles actually are. If people can't figure you out, then they won't figure out your weaknesses.

Hawke sighs, finishing off the rest of her meal. She checks the time; she has a meeting with the viscount in three hours. She chuckles. If only all aspects of life were as transparent to her as business and politics.

Her mind instantly wanders off to thoughts of Merrill.

Merrill, Merrill, Merrill; what to do about Merrill?

Hawke prides herself on never being dominated by anybody; on always being stalwart and dignified. Only three people had ever circumvented that pride. The first was Corypheus, and she killed him. The second was the Arishok, and he had done it with brute strength and violence. The third…was Merrill, and she had done it through enticement and sex. And how did Merrill do _that_?

Arguably, it could be partially blamed on Hawke's connection to Isabella. It had…awakened certain things in her; certain urges. But Merrill was able to do it simply because, well, she was Merrill.

Hawke shakes her head. How could that _possibly_ be a reasonable conclusion?

She had been avoiding the elf since that day. What was she supposed to do? Talking to her seemed…difficult, and the last thing Hawke wanted to do was appear a fool in front of a former student. Strange how distracting the thought of her has become.

It occurs to her, in the far recesses of her mind, that she hasn't had any visions of Isabella's nightly activities. The familiar hunger for her pirate surges unbidden. Hawke blanches at the thought. _Her_ pirate. She feels guilty about thinking it, and she isn't sure why. But as with Merrill, she pushes down such complications. It does nobody any good to let such emotions deviate her from her present course.

* * *

Isabella has not seen Hawke in a quite a while. She cannot say why that is, or rather does not dare to hazard a guess. The woman had not shown up at the Hanged Man for the last two weeks, and as such had not favored Isabella with the pleasure of her company. Under ordinary circumstances this would not have been a problem, after all Hawke is hardly the only person willing to have sex with her. And it isn't as if Isabella is incapable of making a move herself, she has the keys to the Hawke estate after all, and the lock to Hawke's room is easy to pick.

But Hawke is a special case. The mere thought of her sends Isabella spiraling in a mire of insecurities. What if she doesn't want me? What if she doesn't like me? What if she's tired of me? Foreign thoughts, all. Isabella shakes her head, wondering where the childish thoughts are coming from.

But then she sees Hawke in a mirror, and the process starts all over again.

It isn't love, she knows that. Or at least not love in the romantic sense. Isabella cannot deny that she and Hawke are connected…she doesn't know how, or why, but it is there, tethering them together like either end of a shackle. Somehow she knows when Hawke is nearby, what Hawke is thinking, and even what Hawke intends to do. As a result, Hawke is closer to her than anyone has been in years. A sister, almost.

But for the last two weeks, nothing. Hawke has been avoiding her, and Isabella cannot _feel_ her anymore. The sudden absence is alarming, terrifying. Since when had their relationship become so co-dependent? Or, and Isabella's blood runs cold at the thought, when had _she_ become so dependent.

She can't think straight and her composure fails. Her perception suffers, and after the third failed proposition, she knows something is wrong with her. Varric tells her that she isn't herself, and Isabella can't even summon the false swagger to deny it. She is wilting, and she hates herself for being so weak, for somehow _needing_ someone after so many years of being strong and alone.

Strong and alone.

Pride is its own fuel sometimes.

"How fares business Lusine?"

"Well. Perhaps too well. Too much demand, not enough girls…"

"A problem?"

"If we want more money then, yes." Ah, such refreshing bluntness, wrapped in silly shades of silken purple. Lusine is a gem indeed. She must have been gorgeous in her prime. "Back when…the Coterie ran things, they had a particular solution"

Isabella's eyes sharpen. "Slavery, you mean?"

"Erm…"

"Out of the question"

Isabella knows the counter-argument. It's logical, after all. Prostitution can be a lucrative profession, if plied in the right establishment, and girls shipped in from the countryside could be victim to worse fates. Employment at the Rose might be unpleasant at times, but they treat you fairly there, and the girl's families don't need to know where the remittances come from.

But it is a vile practice, just another form of imprisonment. Isabella resists the urge to backhand Lusine's jowly cheek.

The madam sees this and withdraws. "Is there anything else you need, Lady Isabella?"

_Lady Isabella_. How she wants to laugh in this silly woman's face. She says nothing, just stands and opens the office doors, contemplating the circulating clientele of the Blooming Rose. So much life here; such joy and revelry. When had it become so stale?

She steps out of the establishment, ignoring the catcalls and the eager fawning of her favorite boys and girls. The foggy cool of Kirkwall autumn kisses her cheeks. Bracing. The jangle of coin in her pouch weighs encouragingly on her hip. She does a little light hat-shopping before stepping down the stairs to Lowtown, a fresh boater on her head and a jaunty little trilby twirling on her finger.

This she holds up for Merrill when the elf opens the door to her shack in the Alienage.

"Isabella! I…what a surprise!"

"Hello kitten. I thought I might stop by to see my favorite girl. I come bearing presents." She delicately places the hat on Merril's head. "Ah, perfect"

Merrill reaches up to feel the brim but Isabella stays her hands, ushering her into the room and positioning her in front of a mirror.

"Oh, Isabella. I love it!"

"I thought you might." Isabella fusses over Merrill's fringe. "There. Now don't you look dapper?"

"Dapper?"

"It means you're charming"

"Charming? You think so? I'm not charming"

"It's true. I'll bet you could charm the pants off Hawke even." Isabella notices an emotion she doesn't recognize flash across Merril's face. "What's wrong? Do you not like it"

"No Isabella, it's beautiful. Nothing's wrong"

"Well that's just not true. Come on. Tell me"

"Please." She puts on a smile. "It's been so long since you last visited. I don't want to sour it with my petty problems"

Ah, there it is again, that look. Guilt?

"I can't bear to see you upset, kitten"

The tiniest of frowns. Definitely guilt.

"I…"

"Merill"

"Please Isabella. Please don't look at me like that"

"Did something happen?"

"Isabella…"

"I'm here for you. What happened?"

Whatever she expected, Isabella did not think that Merrill would react as if stung. "Isabella…you look so much like…" a sob, "I've made a terrible mistake"

Isabella waits. Her own veneer of calm solidifying as Merrill's shatters in front of her.

"I…Hawke. You know how she is. I…took advantage of her"

It's obvious what she means. "You slept with her?"

"Yes! I'm so sorry, I-" the elf retreats so that Isabella can't see the tears in her eyes. She hides her face until she hears the unusual, and quite confounding, sound of laughter emanating from behind her.

Isabelle laughs, relief flooding her chest. "Is that all, Merril? Is that why you're upset? Oh sweet thing, I was so afraid that it was something else," her chuckles peter out as she catches her breath. "So that's what happened! No wonder she's been avoiding me!"

"What? Why are you laughing? I thought you'd be mad- I thought you'd hate me!"

"Oh dear you two are so alike sometimes. Hawke and I are…special to each other, but not like you think"

"But you two have been making love! I know you have! I'm not so dense that I didn't notice"

Another laugh, "What Hawke and I do isn't making love," though it's close, "we…just have fun. It means nothing"

"Nothing?" her tone is incredulous.

"Nothing at all. So, you know, feel free to jump her again"

"Jump her? I didn't- I- I suppose I did, but how else was I supposed to catch her attention? Oh dear, I haven't seen her in weeks!"

Just like that Isabella's energy returns. She takes Merrill by the hand and escorts her outside the house, unheeding as the elf cringes at the sunlight. She announces that they are off to see Hawke once and for all, to get the infuriatingly dodgy woman to stop ignoring Merrill and acknowledge her feelings. A daunting task to be sure, but the anticipation of seeing that placid face break out in a panic is too much to pass up.

It is all well and good until Isabella catches sight of someone in Lowtown and promptly freezes. The world slows down, and everything that had happened that morning slips away at the sight of Castillon marching towards the Lowtown docks. Merrill tries to get her attention but to no avail, and without a word Isabella is off. Merrill tries to catch up with her, but the crowd is particularly dense today, and while Isabella can easily negotiate the throng, Merrill cannot. Eventually she is left alone in the middle of Lowtown; confused, but more concerned at the sudden change in Isabella's mood. She makes for the Hawke manor, ignoring the butterflies in her stomach.

* * *

"Fenris I'd like to offer you an opportunity"

"No. No more of your opportunities. The last time you wanted something from me we were almost killed by Tal Vashoth"

"Yes! But look where that got us! They're on our side now"

"Stop saying "our" like I am part of your little operation"

"It's called te Coalition," Fenris rolls his eyes, "and you already take jobs; I'm just suggesting we formalize it. And you know, despite our disagreements, I trust you and value your opinion, which is why-"

"I'm going to stop you right there. No good can come of your propositions. It always lands me in strange situations, and I often lose my pants in the process…somehow"

"Please, just hear me out-"

"No, I'm leaving and there's nothing you can do to stop me"

"Well, you say that"

As Fenris gets up to walk out of Hawke's office, Serabaas and two Tal Vashoth let themselves in, each of them holding the chains to a shackled man and woman in elegant mages robes. The sight makes Fenris stop short. He recognizes the design of the robes, and after a moment's scrutiny, he recognizes their faces too.

"You!" The Tal Vashoth respectfully back away as he storms over, grabbing the man by the hair and yanking him to eye level, eliciting a hiss of pain. "You were in Denarius's entourage!"

The Tal Vashoth leans down, speaking into the mage's er. "Tell him what you told us"

"Denarius is…looking for you," his voice slurs from dislodged teeth.

That's all Fenris needs to hear before he throws the man down onto the floor, though his chains catch him painfully before he can hit it.

"What is this Hawke!?" He demands, stalking right back up to the imperious woman now standing in front of her desk.

"A show of good faith." She places a careful hand on Fenris's shoulder. "I have never been anything but forthright with you Fenris, and other than a few fundamental differences of opinion, our interests have always coincided.

"After the Deep Roads I realized that for those interests to be preserved I can't act as solitarily as I once did. I have too many operations running at the same time and I can't be everywhere at once. So I have lieutenants. Varric is the co-head of the Coalition, Isabella runs the Rose, Anders is my liaison with the Mage Underground, Merrill handles things with the elves, Athenril is the head of my covert operations, Feynriel organizes the labor unions, Serabaas leads the Tal Vashoth…and you…well, I was hoping you would lead my enforcers"

"I know you Hawke. There's an angle here. What does any of this have to do with the Tevinter Filth in front of me?"

"Can I not simply be protecting my people?"

"Don't lie to me, not unless you want me to walk out that door"

She grins. "That isn't a refusal I hear"

* * *

"So you see," explains Hawke, moments later, to Varric, "everything else is incidental. Kirkwall is a Templar city. It means little unless I control the flow of Lyrium"

"But you can't do that while the Coterie is blocking Carta access"

"Right. But that isn't the whole picture. Athenril tells me that the Coterie is now supplying illegal Lyrium in Kirkwall"

"How come I haven't heard of this?"

"Recent development. She witnessed a deal Darktown"

"There's no way the Coterie has connections to Dwarven mines, not while there's bad blood between them and the Carta"

"They don't need the mines. They have a completely different source"

"Tevinter"

"That's right, Tevi-" Hawke pauses, "how did you know that?"

He grins. "Educated guess"

"Right. Well," Hawke struggles to regain her momentum, "yes Tevinter is supplying the Lyrium to the Coterie, who in turn distributes it all over Kirkwall. Now the key to all this is the middleman"

"Isabella's dreaded Castillon"

"Right. Wait, how the fuck do you know all these things already?"

He chuckles. "Oh, but I do enjoy seeing you riled up. It's obvious. I have spies too you know, and a ship as big and fancy as Castillon's is hard to miss. Add that to the bribed docking officials and the un-inspected cargo-"

"Means Lyrium"

"That, or poison, but poison typically comes in barrels and not crates, so-"

"Anyway! Getting back on track," That gets a laugh out of him. "I got Fenris on board, finally, and he's more than eager to head an offensive against the Tevinter operations in Kirkwall"

"Thus we cut off Tevinter contact with the Coterie without violating the cease-fire. Smart. But can we even manage a campaign that big?"

"Are you kidding? Between Fenris's task-force and the Tal Vashoth army, I think we'll be fine"

"Okay, but even if we take out all the slaving rackets that still leaves us with Castillon. If anything, both parties will rely on him even more and he'll just become an even richer middleman"

"Which is why we have to cut him out. Permanently." Thus killing two birds with one stone. Maybe then Isabella won't be so frantic about chasing down the Tome of Koslun. "Without those profits the Coterie won't have the resources to keep blocking Carta access to Lyrium, and by proxy, _my_ access to Lyrium"

"Okay, so how do we find Castillon?"

"That's the problem!" She slams a well-manicured fist onto the table, "I can't find him! We have eyes on the ship but he's good at covering his tracks. And he's leaving in two days! Everything depends on whether or not we can kill him in two fucking days!"

"I don't suppose there's anything magical you could do…?"

"Not without running the risk of becoming an abomination, no"

"Who do we have on this?"

"Athenril is running the usual lanes, and Anders is checking in with his contacts. Feynriel's people have an eye on his ship, but…"

"Right. I'll see what I can do, but if we make too much commotion trying to find him we'll only drive him deeper to ground"

They both look to each other, caught up by inspiration, and smile. "Then we burn him out, don't we?"

"Isabella's not going to like that"

"She'll get over it. It's not like it's even her ship"

* * *

Hawke is feeling very good about herself as she and Varric walk out of her office, filled with renewed purpose. It is a feeling that might have lasted had she had not bumped into Merrill at that exact moment.

Instantly her breath gets short and a blush blossoms across her face, coloring her dark cheeks a strange rosy hue. What confidence she built from the day's scheming falters in the face of her former student. Varric watches on in interest, opting to step back a little for better observation.

"Merrill, uhm," Hawke fidgets in discomfort, "h-how are you?"

Merrill's eyes soften. "I'm fine, Isabelle"

The use of her first name sends tingles down her spine. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"I think we should talk," the hesitant words fill Hawke with dread, "but first there's probably something you should know. It's about Isabella"

* * *

Cullen does not like Captain Alrik. He doesn't advertise the fact, but it isn't hard to deduce. Though really there are two kinds of Templar when it comes to Alrik: the ones who adore him and the ones who think he's downright creepy. Fortunately most Templars fall into the latter category. Unfortunately that doesn't necessarily mean all Templars don't agree with his methods.

Cullen is one of them. He may not like the way Alrik looks at some of the female mages, but Alrik's ideas on tranquilization do make sense sometimes. Perhaps the whole Ulrik debacle could be avoided if only…

No. It does no good to question what might have been. That's a child's game and it never leaves Cullen in a good mood.

Besides, now that he knows where Alrik has been getting the Templar's suddenly booming supply of Lyrium, he is much less pleased with the man than he usually is.

"Have you not questioned where this Lyrium comes from!? We are effectively being funded by the whole damn Empirium!"

"Please Cullen I ask for your understanding"

The man's placid tone is grating. "No, Alrik! We are a branch of the Chantry! The Divine sends us Lyrium from Orlais!"

"You know as well as I that in Kirkwall that supply is barely enough. This city is cancerous with blood magic, and we need every weapon we can afford to fight it"

"By buying from blood mages themselves"

"Think of it as fighting fire with fire. We are hardly dealing with the magisters, only a few rogue opportunists"

Cullen concedes that point, but is still angry. "I don't appreciate having to wait in a warehouse for some Antivan smuggler to show up"

"Nor do I, brother, which is why I have you here with me today. I can hold my own, but against the droves of scoundrels that roam these parts…even I might succumb to a dagger in the dark"

"What of the reserves we brought with us?"

"They're hanging back. We don't want to spook the supplier." He grasps Cullen's shoulder in a move intended to be comforting. "Do not worry, brother. The Maker watches over us"

Cullen does not appreciate the familiarity, but decides to be silent for now. Alrik does not outrank him after all, and if this exchange is not to Cullen's liking he can always bring it up to Knight-Commander Meredith the next day. That report is fast becoming a certainty as Cullen shifts his weight from one leg to another, eyes flickering in discomfort along the gloomy interior of this supposedly secure meeting spot.

He thinks he sees something move in the darkness, but he can't be sure.

"Hark, brother," says Alrik, "Castillon approaches"

Cullen seriously wishes that Alrik didn't talk like that. And that he wouldn't stand so close. And that he wasn't so clearly almost a rapist. No, Captain Cullen does not like Alrik one bit.

* * *

Working from behind a desk might be more her style, but it leaves her out of shape. Trundling through Lowtown is legwork her legs aren't quite able to handle; the strain on her legs a slow heaving burn. Has wealth really made her this weak? If it weren't for her magic she would be as helpless as a silly noble girl!

It does help that a pair of Tal Vashoth jog ahead to clear the way for her, pushing apart bodies to create a sizeable wake. To Hawke's annoyance Merrll and Varric keep up easily, their little legs frustratingly more capable than Hawke's. It almost seems like they could be going a little faster if Hawke weren't there.

_Isabella's presence is strong like a musk_

Hawke feels for her connection to Isabella, a faint thread stretching before her like a scent. She follows it, directing the Tal Vashoth as she goes along. Though it had receded to the background in recent days it had always been there, ready for Hawke to take it; to breathe it in. Isabella could no more hide from her than she could from Isabella. Before too long they are in the back alleys of Lowtown.

_An impression of anger, exertion._

Hawke doubts Isabella even has a plan. For such a level-headed individual the pirate has a way of being particularly thick-headed when an opportunity walks by. She might not know how to seize that opportunity, but being a natural improviser hadn't stopped her pursuing it before.

_Fuck! She climbed to the rooftops at this building_

"Uh…" the connection becomes tenuous. She gropes for it as if blind, finding it again, as she always does, by fueling her senses with blood magic. Her irises turn red as a trickle of leaks down her thumb. "…This way!" Twenty minutes of running later, they arrive at a warehouse at the docks, one of the smaller ones crammed against many others like it. The space between them spans barely over five feet.. "Okay….guh, okay. We're here." She struggles to catch her breath.

"She's here?"

"I'm sure of it," Hawke leans against a Tal Vashoth, who supports her wordlessly and without complaint, "she's here, and she likely knows I'm here too"

"How?" Asks Varric.

"She just does. We have to find her before she gets in the way-"

"Get in the way," says Isabella stepping out of the shadows, "of _what_ exactly?"

"Isabella!" Merrill throws her arms around the pirate, "I was so worried for you."

Hawke breathes a sigh of relief. That's one problem solved.

The look on Isabella's face lets her know that now there's a new problem. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking out for you," she huffs

"I don't need taking care of"

"Yes you do. Castillon is in there isn't he?"

"How do you know?"

"Merrill told me you saw someone who met his description." Isabella narrows her eyes, "And…I met him the other night at a party"

"You. Met. Him? And you didn't think to tell me?"

"Of course not!" She hisses, whispering and shouting at the same time, "Because I knew you would do something crazy like you're doing now"

"I'm not your sister Hawke!" Isabella replies, also whisper-shouting, "You don't have to be looking after me all the time!"

"Of course you're not my sister!" She hisses, "I wouldn't be able to sleep with you if you were my sister now would I? But that doesn't mean I don't care for you!"

That throws Isabella for a moment, but she regains herself almost immediately. "But that's not what you're here for is it?"

Hawke hesitates.

"Is it!?"

"No, we-" she sighs, "Varric?"

"We're here to kill him"

"What!? What did I tell you about not meddling in my affairs!"

Hawke rolls her eyes, "A little late for that now isn't it? And this isn't even about you. We have to kill him because of…other reasons"

"I thought we were here to make sure Isabella was okay," says Merrill, confused.

"We are, but we're also here to kill Castillon. Originally we were going to burn his ship to draw him out, but-"

"What!?" squawks Isabella forgetting to whisper, immediately shushed by Hawke, Varric and one of the Tal Vashoth. "You were going to burn his ship!? It's a beautiful ship!"

"Well we don't have to now! You led us right to him"

"Oh so you're using me now? When were you going to tell me you were killing him!?"

"After he was dead! Are you seriously angry that we are trying to kill someone who not only wants to kill you, but is a slaver as well?"

"Well when you put it that way I sound unreasonable"

"All of you shut up," hisses a Tal Vasoth, ignoring Hawke's glare, "someone's coming"

They all shuffle into the alleyway, Hawke being dragged by her Qunari crutch. In that instant Castillon and a small entourage of armed men round the corner. Castillon holds up a hand, halting the procession. They wait in wary silence for him to give the go-ahead, which he delays by carefully watching his surroundings. An underling gently taps his shoulder and whispers something, which gets him to hesitantly move on, walking into the doors of a nearby warehouse as two burly thugs open it for him.

"You think it'll matter if we kill his cohorts?" Asks Verric, readying Bianca.

"I thought it was a foregone conclusion"

Isabella grasps her shoulder, "I'm not entirely comfortable with this Hawke!"

Hawke puts her hands on Isabella's cheeks, forcing the woman to look into her eyes. "He's a monster Isabella. No-one will care if we dispose of him, so why do you?"

"It's…the principle of the thing"

Hawke shakes her head, "I wish we could solve this on your terms. I really do. But he's in MY way now. He dies." Hawke peeks her head out the side of the wall. "Besides," she says, "the sooner he's dead the sooner I can give you his ship"

And with that she motions for her Tal Vashoth to follow her, trailed readily by Varric and Merrill, leaving Isabella to stand stunned in the darkness. As Varric looks back to wink at her, she jumps to pursue them. She catches Hawke's arm.

"Hold on! If you insist on doing this then…we'll be doing it correctly, which is my way"

She dares Hawke to challenge her, but Hawke just nods, smiles. "Alright then. Take point"

* * *

Cullen grasps the hilt of his sword at the sight of a small group of armed individuals. At the head of the group is the well-dressed man in a goatee, sporting cufflinks that likely cost more than Cullen makes in a year. Castillon, obviously. His smile is irritatingly smug. He makes Cullen's skin crawl; he's seen blood mages wearing that expression. Cullen sometimes forgets that you don't have to be a mage to be insufferably evil.

"Castillon, I presume," says Alrik, eerily calm as always, "I don't know whether to be threatened or flattered that you brought this many men"

An affable chuckle. "A precaution, nothing more. I take it you are Commander Alrik?"

"Captain"

Castillon's briefly turns his attention to Cullen, but looks back to Alrik almost immediately. Cullen seethes. _Dismissive bastard_.

"I confess, I have never had the pleasure of dealing with a Templar before"

"I'm not here to accommodate you"

Castillon's smile is unaffected by the Alrik's bluntness. "Of course. The Lyrium." He gestures for a man to come forth and open a small chest. "Is right here"

Neither Alrik nor Cullen makes a move to take it. "That is not enough"

"It is what I'm offering you," says Castillon, inspecting his cuticles.

Alrik stares, quietly infuriated. He closes his eyes, breathing evenly to calm himself, opening them again when he's ready to negotiate. "The Coterie informed me you were in Kirkwall searching for something…a relic"

"Did they now?"

"If we were to…assist on that search…"

Castillon interrupts him. "If you were to deliver me my relic, I would provide you all the Lyrium you would ever need, at a _very_ reasonable price"

"This relic sounds very valuable," says Cullen.

Castillon looks at him. "Never you mind how valuable it is"

Alrik nods. "Very well. We shall keep our…eyes open"

"That does not exactly fill me with confidence"

"The Templars are the largest and most powerful military group in Kirkwall. If your relic is here, we can find it. Or," his voice drops dangerously low, "do you doubt our capabilities?"

Castillon regards him for a moment before bursting out in laughter. Typically, his cohorts start laughing too. "Of course not Captain! I have…_faith_, in your capabilities. I wouldn't dream of questioning them! Haha! Very well, here," he hands Alrik a paper, "a description of my relic"

If Alrik is perturbed he doesn't show it. "Interesting"

"If that's all we need for now," says Cullen, angry and impatient, "then don't waste our time any longer. Take your money and give us the Lyrium"

Castillon regards Cullen, his opinion of him visibly changing. "You know what? You can have this batch gratis. As a sign of good, hehe, faith"

The case-bearer humbly leaves it at Cullen's feet. Alrik immediately picks it up, wordlessly turning to leave. Cullen follows suit, but not without keeping a wary eye on the departing Castillon.

* * *

"There he is"

The Tal Vashoth points from the emerging group. He is sitting on top of the warehouse roof, Isabella sitting next to him.

She shakes her head. "Smug bastard. He's walking at the front," she smiles, "just makes this easier I suppose"

It's too bad he won't know that she's responsible for killing him. She turns her dagger to reflect the light of the moon.

On the ground, several yards away in the direction Castillon is heading, Varric sees the signal and moves to position himself for the shot, resting Bianca on the raised surface of an improvised mount. He steadies his breathing. He is ready.

Merrill, in a nearby alleyway, readies a spell, listening for the footfalls of the approaching group. The whole plan relies on her being able to hear them, to cast the spell, and to sustain it. Suitably she is accompanied by one of the Tal Vashoth, who stand protectively in front of her.

"Wait," says Castillon, prideful but paranoid. He makes a gesture and two rogues venture in front of them, disappearing in twin shrouds of stealth. Varric is in no danger of detection, but Merrill is wide open. A brief panic takes her, wondering if one of the rogues will detect them. But her worry is curtailed as the Tal Vashoth lifts her without warning and sprints down the alley with surprising furtiveness. At the other end he puts her down and they hide behind the wall cover. She strains their ears in an attempt to detect Castillon's rogues, but she hears nothing. She isn't sure how well the Tal Vashoth can detect such things, but his stoicism is oddly comforting.

Thirty seconds of heart-pounding silence ensues in which Merrill isn't sure that the plan is ruined or not. Her breathing is shallow and quiet, until she starts holding it out of fear.

Moments later the rogues can be heard reporting an all clear. She lets go of a breath she wasn't aware she was holding.

"If you can cast the spell from here," whispers the Tal Vashoth, without looking at her, "I can listen for their approach"

Merrill concentrates. "It's tough, hold on." She pricks her thumb, feeding her magic and senses. She steadies her breath. Using blood magic when your heartbeat is fast, unless you are trained to do it, is extremely risky; it makes for unstable spells. An even breath steadies her nerves. "I can cast it from here. But I can't account for the rogues"

The Tal Vashoth nods. "That will have to do. On my signal"

One breath. Merrill shuts her eyes, stretching her awareness and focusing on the other side of the building, where Castillon and his men await their ambush.

Two breaths. She can almost detect them, faint stirrings of blood in uninterrupted ventricles. They disappear at the softening of her heartbeat.

Three breaths. There they are again.

The Tal Vashoth spots the entourage at the end of the alleyway, judging the trajectory from Castillon to Varric's line of sight.

A second stretches in front of them.

"Now"

Merrill's immediately quickens her magic, fueling it with by slicing a cut in her thumb. Her will expands, stretching beyond her typical capabilities, ballooning until Merrill's head feels like it's being squeezed through a hole. She finds Castillon. She finds his minions. She channels her magic.

On the other side of the alleyway, vines burst from the ground and snare the group's legs. One of them cries out in alarm.

* * *

"What was that?"

Alrik turns to Cullen. "These are the docks, Captain. Besides Darktown, it is home to the seediest elements Kirkwall has to offer"

"I heard a scream"

"Not surprising, and also not our problem"

"If it was one of Castillon's people then it _is_ our problem"

"They can take care of themselves"

"These are the docks. Seediest elements, remember? What if someone tracks their involvement to us?"

Alrik hesitates, his arms circling the Lyrium case. "We are exposed here"

Cullen curses the man's selfishness. "Get back to the Gallows. I'll check it out"

* * *

Varric releases a breath. "Gotcha"

The bolt spits from Bianca's lash as quick as lightning, shooting from the opening of the alleyway, down the length of the street, right on track for the space between Castillon's eyes. The shot is perfect, and almost assured to hit as the man cannot move. But the bolt impacts seemingly on nothing, hitting someone in stealth; the rogue is thrown back as if spit from the air.

"Ambush!"

Varric curses, shooting another bolt. It hits its mark, but it isn't a fatal, piercing Castillon's shoulder. Before he can fix his mistake he has to take cover as arrows careen in his direction. At least they haven't seen him yet. He peers around the crate protecting him and his eyes widen. Sailing toward him is a fireball. He barely makes it to the other end of the alleyway before the thing explodes.

Isabella is already racing down the adjacent street, catching Hawke as she steps out of position.

"We have a problem!"

"You think!?"

She pulls on a simple mask, stepping into the street behind Castillon's entourage, readying a spell even as they begin escaping from Merrill's vines.

Of course they have a mage! Any self-respecting crime boss with an entourage is bound to have a mage. And if Castillon is anything like Hawke thinks he is…

An elf at Castillon's side turns at the surge of magic emanating from Hawke. His eyes burn red. A blood mage. Of course.

Hawke sneers, surrounding the fireball he shoots at her in a pocket of cold air. It dissipates into nothing. Before he can follow up she catches the group in a gravitic ring. They are all pulled into a tangle of limbs and armor.

"Varric!" She shouts.

An explosive shot booms as it catches the group, igniting the better part of them in flames. Their cries of pain fill the night.

But Hawke leaves nothing to chance, readying to cast a blood spell that would finish them off. But the enemy mage has other plans, rising with the assistance of his own force magic. Before she can unleash the spell he launches a rapid stone fist, catching her in the jaw and breaking it. She flies back, landing roughly on the cobblestones.

Isabella throws a dagger at the mage and it buries in his skull. He doesn't go down.

"Oh dear"

He runs at her, picking up speed at an alarming pace.

"Abo' nation!" Yells Hawke, her voice slurred from the jaw fracture. She throws back the abomination with her own stone fist. She needs Isabella's help to stand back up, having taken more damage than she thought she would.

"Not ready for combat, huh?"

Hawke swats Isabella in irritation. "Jus' stan' ba'"

She encases herself in rock armor just as the abomination jumps to its feet, only to have them ensnared once again in vines. Merrill smiles from the alleyway, standing aside as Varric shoots bolts, lodging them into the abomination's back. It screams in pain, but doesn't turn its attention from Hawke and Isabella.

It vomits a fireball from its mouth, which Hawke stops with a ward. By the time the flames clear from its surface the abomination is barely five yards away. It resists the mind blast Hawke shoots at it, tackling her to the ground, punching at the rock armor, again and again. But the armor holds. Coughing blood, Hawke launches it away with a force punch. Before it hits the ground it is caught by two giant, fiery fists emerging from the air.

Standing up, Hawke tightens her grip on something invisible in front of her, the giant fists tightening their hold on the abomination correspondingly. With a savage pull, Hawke tears the abomination in two. She wastes no time stalking forward, the rock armor falling off of her piece by piece as the two parts of the abomination's body plop back onto the ground. By the time she gets to the inert bodies at the other side of the street, she is completely bereft of armor, but she keeps on her mask.

She searches the bodies for someone alive. There are three of them; to her surprise, one of them is Castillon. She shakes her head, grasping the wrist of one of his other cohorts. He is on the precipice of death, and Hawke doesn't hesitate to harvest his life energy, healing her wounds and permanently extinguishing his life. Her jaw snaps painfully back into one piece.

"Is that him?" Asks Isabella looking at the cringing form of Castillon on the floor.

"Yeah"

"I don't suppose we can heal him?"

"We're here to kill him, Isabella. Or have you forgotten that?"

"I know. I just want to talk to him first"

Hawke shrugs, working her meager healing magic on Castillon, clearing the burns to a degree, and sealing the bolt wound with the bolt still inside it. With force magic she pulls him to his feet.

"You really abuse those abilities you know that?"

"I'm out of shape. This is how I compensate. Besides, I don't get to use it much. It's like stretching my muscles"

Isabella rolls her eyes, still alert but happy that everything seems okay. She turns her attention back to Castillon, looks into his eyes. He looks back at her, trying to smile but unable to stop grimacing in pain.

"So this was your orchestration, Isabella. Remarkably done," his eyes slide to Hawke, "I'm surprised you were able to find such potent help"

"I never thought it would end like this, she says, almost rueful. "I imagined a duel, maybe you having to give me your ship"

"I would have liked that." He starts laughing until Isabella twists the bolt in his shoulder. "Tell me, before I die, did you end up finding it? Did you find the Tome of Koslun?"

Isabella's eyes dart in Hawke's direction in momentary panic. "No"

"Pity. I would have like to know where it is, at least before I die. I don't suppose there's anything I can do to convince you to let me live?"

"Believe it or not, I'm not the one who wants you dead"

"You're not?" He looks at Hawke, "What is this about, if not that Qunari relic?"

"Something I'm sure you can understand, Castillon," says Hawke, not taking of the mask but not bothering to adjust her voice, "business"

And with a nod from Isabella, she uses blood magic to squeeze his heart until it stops pumping. He crumples to the floor, slowly dying as his heart is left an inert lump of meat.

"Hawke, about what he said…about the tome-"

Isabella's eyes widen as her gaze shifts over Hawke's shoulder. She immediately pushes Hawke out of the way and kicks out, offsetting a new assailant's sword swipe. He moves to compensate but Isabella is too fast lashing out with her knife and tripping him as he dodges. He scoots away, brandishing his sword and carefully watching the both of them.

Hawke curses at the sight of the telltale armor.

"Stand down Templar, you are outmatched and outnumbered"

"I would rather die before taking an order from a blood mage!"

"Then consider it self-preservation. If you keep attacking, I will be forced to kill you"

* * *

Cullen curses. This isn't likely to end well for him. Tainted magic is in the air and it overwhelms his senses like the inside of a sewer.

"Stay back," he warns, as the masked woman takes a step closer. The weight of her magic is overwhelming.

"Leave, Templar"

Cullen extends his will to shut down her magic, but is blocked by immensity of her power. "Abomination," he whispers.

Suddenly a second will appears behind him and adds to his efforts, not entirely blocking but suppressing the woman's magic. He turns, feeling both relief and annoyance at the sight of Alrik standing behind him, still holding the case of Lyrium. "Alrik!" he yells, "They're more of them. We have to go, now!"

"No need for that, Captain." A squad of Templar hunters materialize at the end of the street, marching in formation. "I got worried, so I commandeered the nearest contingency"

Cullen's heart soars. Bastard Alrik may be, but he came through. No sooner does the woman utter an exhausted, "Fuck," than does her partner take her by the elbow and run in the opposite direction.

* * *

Arrows hail from the other side of the street as Hawke and Isabella dive into the cover of a nearby alleyway. They run, trying to put as much distance between them and the Templars behind them. But the pursuers are dogged and numerous, materializing at every turn. At the end of one street-way they block Isabella and Hawke on both sides, Isabella tries to turn into an alleyway but Hawke holds onto her, running towards the entourage of Templars.

She floors the lot of them with a gravitic ring, stepping over their groaning bodies and continuing her escape. Isabella guesses her intention and picks up the pace, pulling her by the hand towards Darktown. But the number of pursuing Templars increases, and they seem to pour in from all directions.

"Why the hell are there so many!?"

"Castillon was their last source of supplementary Lyrium!" An arrow lands at her heels, making Hawke jump a little. "They're out for blood"

"Meaning they won't stop until they find us"

"Well, not _us_ so much as _you_. I have a mask on"

"You're forgetting the resemblance, idiot!"

Giant arms encircle them, pulling them into an alleyway. The only thing stopping Isabella from plunging her dagger into them is the telltale gray skin. Hidden in the shade of a small hat shop, the Tal Vashoth puts them down in front of a frantic Merrill.

"What's going on!?"

Hawke gratefully leans on her. "Templars witnessed me kill someone with blood magic. They're out for blood"

Merrill runs her hands through her hair, "Then we get away! Escape into the sewers"

"Not possible. They saw Isabella, which means they'll be scouring this place in the morning for anyone matching her description." She punches the wall, "Why didn't I think to give you a mask!?"

"Easy, we got away. And no-one would believe that you dress like this"

"It's not that simple. They know I'm out here. Someone as powerful as me…there'll be a witch-hunt! There's going to be repercussions. I need- I need to plan"

"We don't have time for that right now!"

Hawke searches the cracks on the floor as if staring at them long enough will glean some answers. Her head snaps up. "Okay…okay I think I know what needs to be done." She looks to Isabella, "Tell Varric…tell Varric that the Coalition is now under his full control. The businesses, the illicit operations; all of it"

"Wait, Hawke! What are you planning?"

"Just listen. The paperwork is all in my desk. You'll have to get to it before the investigation"

"What investigation!?"

"The one Aveline will be conducting in a few hours. Stop interrupting me." She takes hold of Isabella's shoulder, "If you press Varric he can probably get you Castillon's ship. But the Rose is still in your control and it brings in about a fourth of the Coalition's income. I'd like you to stay and watch after it for me"

"Hawke-"

"What did I say about interruptions!?"

"I'm not one of your fucking grunts Hawke!"

Hawke fights down her anger. "Argh! Look, just do me this favor. Please?!"

"Fine! Just tell me what you're planning"

"No time." Hawke turns to the Tal Vashoth, tells him to relay a message to the Serabaas; tells him to operate under Varric's orders from now on. The giant asks no questions, just nods. Finally she turns to Merrill, hesitantly takes the elf's hands in her own. She searches for words, but as usual with Merrill, she has a hell of a time finding them. "Merrill…"

"Don't do anything reckless"

"Are _you_ seriously telling _me_ that?" She laughs, trying to pass it off as a joke. "Um, Merrill I…I don't know…you confused me the other night. I…wasn't sure what…I thought, uhm. We…I wish I had talked to you earlier about what that night meant. You know how I am, and as it turns out I barely know you. I should have been paying attention-"

Merrill cuts off her rambling by seizing her robes and bringing her down for a rough kiss. "Is that clear enough?" she whispers into Hawke's ear.

"Yes." She composes herself. "You have to get out of here now"

"Where are you going if not with us?"

She places her hand on Merrill's cheek. "Don't worry about me. Just go." She nods to the Tal Vashoth, who nods back, grasping Merrill's hand and pulling her along. She casts a hesitant look back, but complies with the giant's insistence. Hawke has been her enabler long enough for her to know when to return the favor.

"It's just us now Hawke. You may as well tell me what you're planning"

Hawke smiles ruefully. "I'll tell you on the way there"

Isabella huffs at her counterpart's insufferable vagueness. "Where are we going?"

"To see Aveline of course. I wouldn't surrender myself to anyone else. The Templars find their blood mage, but they won't kill me"

* * *

Next time: as the Qunari situation worsens, Hawke searches for ways to subvert power in the Tower of Magi.

Author's note: Y'all can probably tell, but this story gets away from me every time.


	9. Chapter 9

**Hawke**

Anger had always been the source of Hawke's greatest powers. It was ever-present and inexhaustible. But anger, no matter the quantity, cannot truly help her here.

"Move along, mage!"

The templar shoves her back in line. She bumps against a young man next to her, but he's too weak to even react. Hawke looks at the array of gleaming armor escorting them and the resentment stewing in her chest flares with a righteous fury.

But she stifles it, lest the mages get a sense of how powerful she really is. She isn't sure how it happened, but her legal representation (for no mage is allowed to represent themselves) had convinced the templar-cammander that she was just a young woman caught in the wrong crowd. This had earned her enough leniency to avoid both death and tranquility. That's some team of lawyers she has in the coalition.

Still, she can't help but worry. No-one knows the organization like she does. Varric, no matter how savvy and connected, isn't used to running an outift as big as the Coalition.

Her blood runs cold and the anger, naturally, flares up once more.

"What was that?" asks a Templar, pushing into the crowd with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

FUCK! Hawke squeezes her anger into a bottle.

"What? What is it?"

"I thought I detected a magic spike"

"The commanding officer observes the procession of mages, carefully, with a hawk's eye." The supervising Templar nudges his friend. "Must have been your imagination or I would have felt it too"

Close call.

The group is marched into the courtyard of the Gallows where a Templar in gleaming armor stands on the platform above his fellows. His helmet is on and the sunlight shines almost oppressively against the metal. He must be hot in there. Idiot.

"Listen up mages. You are here to be detained both for your own safety and for the safety of the people in the free marches. I know this seems unfair, but like it or not you are all susceptible to demonic possession, and are thus too dangerous if allowed to go free.

But take heart. You are about to enter into a community of your peers, where you needn't fear the persecution of the outside world. No more running. You are home"

The speech sounds polished, but the knight delivers it perfectly. Some of the mages mutter disbelievingly, but so many more hazard to whisper among themselves of hope.

The orator either truly believes what he says or he's very good at his job.

"We will now sort you according to age, and you will be accompanied to your new living quarters"  
And so the sorting begins. Men and women, older and younger; they have a whole system devised. The accountant in her admires the categorization; the organizing. The mage in her seethes.

She is in a line for known apostates, surrounded by the most Templars. They watch her like she'll go abomination any minute.

"Her," The helmeted knight points right at her. Mages leap to get away from her, and two Templars grab her by either arm.

"Yes captain?"

"Bring her to my office"

He leaves with a sweep of his cape, leaving the mages to whisper frightfully.

"They're going to make her tranquil!"

"It was all lies! We're going to die here!"

A lieutenant raps his sword against his shield. "Enough of that! Get moving!"

Hawke is ushered rather roughly away from the group, taken down a hallway and into the main building. Clerks bustle about, only casting scant glances Hawke's way. Finally she is brought into a small, but well-furnished office and deposited into the seat in front of the desk. The Templars then stand behind her as they wait for the captain to arrive, an uncomfortable presence to be sure, but Hawke supposes they can't take any chances.

They snap to attention at clang of the chamber doors opening. Hawke can hear his armor jingle behind her. He stops.

"Leave us," he orders, and the Templars comply.

Alone with Hawke, he walks at a languid pace around the desk, obviously glorying in his power. He takes a seat, settling in with a little wiggle of his hips before casually bringing out a list and consulting it. "You are," he tracks his index finger along the parchment, "Serah Hawke"

"That is my name, yes"

"And you are charged with murdering a man with magic. Fortunately for you, he was a known criminal, which is why you are being shown such leniency"

He gets a hum of acknowledgment.

"Now how do you suppose you got away with that when two Templar captains swore you were practicing blood magic?"

"I couldn't say"

"Sir"

"What?"

"I couldn't say, **sir**" show the proper respect when addressing a Templar"

Hawke narrows her eyes and stares at the visor in the man's helmet. "You're enjoying this aren't you?"

He shakes his head, reaching up to take off the headgear, revealing jet black hair, clear blue eyes, and a wide youthful smile.

"I'll bet you're glad I joined the Templars NOW, eh?"

* * *

"Aaaargh!"

"Captain Hawke!" The two Templars burst into the office, "what's wrong!? We heard a shout!"

The Hawke siblings placidly turn to regard the guards. "I haven't heard any such thing. Have you, mage?"

"I have not, sir"

"There you have it. While I appreciate your enthusiasm for your job sers, I can't say I much appreciate these interruptions"

The guards, more confused than they have been in weeks, look to each other before slowly backing away to the door, muttering apologies. The door shuts behind them with a decisive clack.

Carver immediately surges to his feet. "What are you, five?" He hisses, "This is a circle of magi, you cannot go tugging on people's ears! Especially not Templar captains"

"You aren't a captain. You're my brother"

"I am both Isabelle, and you would do well to remember that"

"Ha! You? How'd you get this job? I thought you'd still be a grunt"

"I've been a captain for the last week. And I've changed a lot since I left the organization"

"Whatever you are now, you will always be my little brother"

Double-edged is a big sister's affection, for though she may offer unconditional love, she can never truly take her little brother seriously, no matter what rank he holds these days.

"You are insufferable"

"Don't get me wrong brother, I am thankful to be under your supervision, I'm even...I'm proud of you carver. Truly"

"Oh." Carver doesn't know how to interpret this sudden approval. It's more touching than he'd care to admit. "Uhm. Okay, I'm...glad"

"I just hope you do a better job at this than you did at keeping the Red Irons intact"

"We were the target of a coordinated attack by the city's largest criminal organization! I didn't stand a chance!"

"Hmph. Excuses"

"Bah! No! No, I'm not starting this again. Ooh here come the migraines. I never should have agreed to do this"

"Mother? What does she have to do with anything?"

Carver massages his temples, but smiles nonetheless, savoring the moment. "Right. I forgot. They told me you wouldn't know"

"I wouldn't know what?"

* * *

**Isabella**

Isabella had always been a flighty sort. As soon as she felt herself being tied down she always took off before anyone knew she was missing. When Hawke was taken to the Gallows, three things stopped her from taking her newly-gained ship to Antiva.

The first was the connection. It already hurt to be away from Hawke for as long as she had been, and it hurt doubly so to know that Hawke had known about it the entire time, the bitch. But even in her anger she couldn't deny she was worried about her. Hawke had, after all, given her her freedom. Not in a way she approved of really, but she had a ship now, and that should be all that mattered. But sitting in her splendorous captain's quarters, still adorned in Castillon's gaudy luxuries, she can still feel the dull ache of her connection to Hawke, and the reminder of how much she misses her. What she has with Hawke is the closest thing she has to unconditional love.

And then there was Merril. The girl was inconsolable; her overactive imagination coming up with all kinds of horrific scenarios for what Hawke might be facing in the tower. The worst part was that she couldn't show this grief in public. The elves of the alienage still saw her as their unorthodox keeper, and she needed to be strong for them. She could weep in private, and Isabella was a great soundboard for her grievances. The girl needed her. Leaving now would break her heart.

And then there was the third reason, and it was a doozy.

Isabella had been getting plastered in the Hanged Man the day after Hawke was taken, wallowing guilt, or was it sadness? It was hard to tell after the tenth ale. Heavens, she knew she had a greater constitution than this.

Unfortunately the quality of potential sexual partners was abysmal, so she didn't put up much of a fight when Varric pulled her off her barstool for what he called a "business meeting." It made her laugh how Hawke-like he was acting. This made her think of Hawke, and she began to confuse herself by crying tears of both mirth and sadness. She was still laugh/crying when she realized that she and Varric were outside and on their way to Hightown.

"I'm...pretty sure your office is the other way" she mutters, putting almost her entire height on his shoulders.

"Thought the cool air might help sober you up, and besides, we aren't going to my office"

"We're not? Where we going?"

"You'll see"

Climbing up the steps to Hightown was a battle, but they made it somehow. Isabella managed to sober up a bit by the time they make it to the Amell manor.

"Oh Maker, Varric what are we doing here?"

"You'll see"

"Don't give me that"

"Isabella please. This is important"

"*Sigh*. I'm not nearly tipsy enough to deal with this nonsense." The last thing she wants to deal with is a mother grieving over the loss of yet another child.

But instead of an inconsolable Leandra, she finds a woman sitting at Hawke's desk, eyes steely with something she hesitates to describe. Isabella is instantly on guard.

"Alright. What's going on?"

"Have a seat Isabella"

She complies, if only because she trusts him. Everything else about this situation is making her drastically uncomfortable.

"How have you been, girl?" Leandra asks.

"I've been alright. What about you Leandra? It must be difficult for you now that...you know"

"Indeed. And it has been hard for Varric as well"

"It's been hard on all of us"

"Yes, but Varric especially. I'm sure you know that Isabelle put him in charge of the Coalition while she's in the tower. It was uncharacteristic of her, but this was a short-sighted plan"

"The Tal Vashoth will only respect my rule for so long," says Varric, "and their agreement with Hawke is the backbone of the entire coalition. Not to mention, if it gets out that Hawke was arrested in the first place it would look bad for us. A mage in such a position of power? The Templars wouldn't stand for it. There would be investigations"

"Wait," interrupts Isabella, "you mean they haven't announced this yet? Why?"

"They have actually. Aveline saw to that"

"Then what is this about. What are you two getting at?"

Varric puts a hand on her shoulder. "Isabella, we didn't put Hawke's name on the arresting form. We put yours"

* * *

**Hawke**

"They did what?!"

"Don't look at me like that. It was mother's idea"

"Mother!? What nonsense is this!?"

"Careful...I can feel your magic boiling from here"

Hawke makes the titanic effort to bottle her anger.

"You're shaking. And is that a vein?"

"Isabella. Is pretending. To be. Me!?"

"Er, Yes"

"How could mother possibly think that's a good idea!?"

"Deep breaths Isabelle. Deep breaths"

* * *

**Isabella**

"Deep breaths Isabella. Deep breaths"

"How could you possibly think this is a good idea?! I can't be Hawke! I don't want to be Hawke! Oh god the responsibilities alone...I'd have to do accounting and boring stuff like that!" Tawny eyes dart to the room's potential exits, "I have to get out of here"

And she might have escaped too had Leandra not placed her hand on Isabella's. It was tingly with unfamiliar familial warmth. And then Leandra hugs her. She's soft, and not in a particularly arousing way. More of a pleasant motherly way. It's a rare kind of hug for Isabella to receive.

"I can't force you to do anything you don't want to. I wouldn't even if I could. But please Isabella, please do this for me. Please do this for my daughter and the thousands of people who depend on her"

Reluctantly she gently pushes the older woman away. "This responsibility was Hawke's ambition, not mine"

"But surely you can understand being a slave to one's nature. My daughter thirsts for power, you crave freedom. You of all people should understand what it is like to be a slave to your passions, almost to the point that you see nothing else

"My daughter wasn't always like this. She was so focused on protecting us, allowing no time for herself. And then she stumbled into some influence and then...she became a different person"

Indeed, no-one was quite sure how Hawke was able to wrest control of the Red Irons from Meeran in the first place. But there were rumors, dark rumors; and no matter what she thought of her child Leandra couldn't help wondering if there was some truth to them. After all, Meeran hadn't been seen since Hawke took over. There was a fire in her eyes since then; a desire for wealth and power that had consumed her.

"But then you came along"

"Huh?"

"You came into her life and it was like she rediscovered a missing piece of herself. I doubt she noticed it but she became softer...started caring about others again. I can't really explain it, but I know it was because of you. She very probably loves you, not that she realizes it." That strikes a chord. "I don't understand your relationship," she chuckles, "I don't think I'm even capable. But I do know that you care for each other much more than either of you let on."

"Of course I care about her." It's a surprisingly easy admission. "But that doesn't mean I want to take her place"

"Knowing my daughter, it won't be for long. Please, if you care for my daughter as much as I think you do..."

Isabella's back strains against the back of the chair as she assumes an exaggerated backwards lean, her hands massaging her temples in despondent agitation. She hasn't even started being Hawke and she can feel the woman's stress headaches coming on.

* * *

**Hawke**

"Mother said all that? Maker could she be any more embarrassing?"

"Well I'm paraphrasing. I didn't have time to memorize the entire transcription Varric gave me"

"Feh. Why am I not surprised? How long has Isabella been...me?"

"Not long. The official story is that you're sick and recuperating behind closed doors"

"So she hasn't..."debuted" yet?"

"No, but-"

"That's fantastic! We can stop this before it starts. You can go to mother and- why are you looking at me like that?"

"Yeah, you're not doing anything to endanger your, mine or mother's life. The only reason they didn't demote me is because officially mother said that Isabella is your long lost twin sister with whom we had only just reunited. We had no idea she was a mage, which is to say we had no idea _you_ were a mage because you are now Isabella"

"This is a confusing and stupid plan Carver"

"Seems right up your alley then. Look, it won't be so bad. Just lay low for a while, be a good little mage-"

Hawke actually snarls at that.

"-be a good little mage," repeats Carver warningly, "keep your temper in check, and with luck we can fix this before someone tranquilizes you"

He says this nonchalantly, but Hawke's wariness is real. "Is there actually a chance of that?"

Carver steeples his fingers. "I want to say no...but I hear things. There's a captain here by the name of Alrik. He used to perform summary tranquilizations before the knight commander put a stop to it. But I've heard rumors that he's been doing it behind her back"

"Why haven't you done anything about it!?"

"I can't just accuse a senior officer without proof can I? And tranquils aren't likely to testify against him"

"So-" the dismay is clear on her face.

"So please, Isabel. Keep out of trouble. Participate in the classes. Just don't give anyone any reason to kill you"

Hawke looks into his eyes, and perhaps sees something of the capable young man he has become. She gives him her hand.

"Fine. I'm in your hands brother. Don't let me down"

Keep her head down? Not likely. But Isabella, she will be left to fate. And Leandra.

* * *

**Isabella**

"Andraste's tits, how in Thedas can she wear these things?"

"I don't know Isabella." Says Merrill, holding in her arms the last three sets of robes Isabella had tried on, "But I think you look very fetching in them"

"Indeed," agrees Leandra. "You are the spitting image of my Isabelle. Except for..." she leans forward and, swatting away Isabella's feebly resisting hands, removes the pirate's voluminous gold necklace.

"Hey!"

"We'll also need to cut your hair and..." she discreetly glances at Isabella's bust which is a tad bigger than Hawke's.

"And what? What on earth else do I have to do to satisfy this ridiculous plan?"

Leandra musters her patience, sighing as a mother would when dealing with a fussy daughter. "Never mind"

"Ooh! Ooh! Let's have her try on the green one next"

"You're killing me Merrill. How many layers does this one have?"

"Three I think"

Isabella handles the garment this way and that, recognition budding in her eyes. "Oh I remember this," she says, feeling the thick fabric between her fingers, "It was a nightmare to remove. I had to-", remembering her present company she alters the course of the sentence, "-leave it on."

If Leandra caught on she gave no indication. "Yes. My daughter had a decidedly singular fashion sense"

"Well this stuff can't be all she has. She's rich!" Isabella throws open the large closet and starts rummaging, "What kind of rich woman doesn't treat herself to some nice clothes every now and then?"

"My daughter, sadly. Never wore anything that made her uncomfortable. She would have nothing but cassocks if she had it her way. But if you're looking for something nicer..." she fishes out a sapphire blue number that looks like a revealing cross between a robe and an outright dress. It scoops almost indecently at the front, "…We have some like these"

Isabella lets out a low whistle, grabbing a sleeveless variant of the same garment. "She bought these?" she asks, incredulous, walking past the screen to disrobe so she can try it on, "Why didn't she ever wear them for me?"

Leandra clears her throat before Isabella can elaborate, not entirely sure how much of it was genuine and how much was self-flattery. "I got them for her. For parties and such"

"I don't know much about human fashion Mrs. Hawke but I do think they're very fetching"

"Oh Merrill for the last time please call me Leandra"

"Okay!" And Leandra sighs because she knows Merrill won't remember she said that. She is about to stress her point when Isabella saunters out from behind the screen, striking a saucy pose that highlights the tightness of the robe. "Well?"

"Oh my"

"Isabella you look beautiful! Even more than usual, which isn't to say you aren't normally beautiful, but you look so...I can't quite put my finger on it. You look like one of those book-lenders, only sexy!"

"Yes, the presentation is quite...striking"

"You think I can get away with it?" Isabella checks herself out in a mirror, putting her hand on her butt and admiring the way the garment clings. Merril's mouth goes dry.

"If you try not to get too carried away, yes I believe you can wear these. Beautiful and elegant. You'll be the talk of the town"

* * *

"Oh my, is that Lady Hawke?"

"Couldn't be. She never comes to these things"

"Not without wanting to make a deal. And _never_ looking like that"

"It must be her sister then, the pirate"

"Oh no, it turns out that the sister was a mage. They took her to the gallows last week. How have you not heard about it?"

"I heard she wasn't a sister at all. Just someone who looks remarkably like her"

"Please. That's ridiculous"

"I don't know about any of that, but she looks stunning in that...whatever that is"

"She really does. I wonder if she'll let me trouble her for a dance"

"Doesn't your family owe her money?"

"Doesn't yours?"

Within minutes of having stepped into the manor, Leandra guiding her by the arm, Isabelle Hawke is already the talk of the party. Or really Isabella is, but none of the nobles need to know that. Hawke was notorious for avoiding these occasions, and when she did show up it was in fairly unflattering robes. But now, adorned in finery that made it hard not to look at her, Isabella was creating a stir.

Having come to many of these parties before (to steal things and bed Kirkwall's elite) Isabella knows exactly how to behave as a noble lady. Having been a pirate captain for most of her life, she also knows how to exude power in a patriarchal world. She is beautiful, but not demur. Forceful, but not arrogant. And above all, she is mysterious.

She was mysterious before, of course, but now there was a mystique about her that was downright...seductive. Where exactly that seductiveness came from was hard to pinpoint, but the cleavage certainly helped.

"Ah, and those are the Eclasstrians, from Tarning." Says Leandra, pointing out a dour group of people skulking in the corner. "And that man over there is the head of-"

"Are we doing this to establish myself as Hawke, or is it more about showing me off to the other families?"

"The first one darling, of course. That all of Kirkwall's elite is taken with you just for making an appearance; that is an added bonus"

"You're not fooling me Leandra"

"Please darling," she pats Isabella's hand, "call me mother"

It makes Isabella happy to hear this, even if it is to perpetuate a ruse. Deciding to go with the flow however, she squeezes Leandra's hand, smiles.

"Whatever you say mother"

* * *

"This is stupid "Mother!"" Isabella scratches her head, feeling more than a little strange as her hand runs through short hair.

"As lucrative as the whorehouse is, my daughter hardly spent any time there"

"But I was doing office work, just like she does"

"Yes, but there are aspects to my daughter's business other than prostitution. And it's my understanding that you were helping yourself to the merchandise rather than doing any actual work"

"I have to be there; otherwise some noble might get possessive and try to take one of my girls or boys against their will. It happens!"

"I have no doubt. That's why we hired two Tal Vashoth as bouncers"

Isabella shudders. Even though they aren't really Qunari anymore, she can't help being uneasy around those horned giants, even though constant exposure to them is warming her up to them. She glares at the ledger in front of her. "Shipping manifests? Construction reports? This is crushing my spirit Leandra. I don't do this sort of work"

"Well, usually Feynriel would handle this sort of thing, but he's been sick, and no-one else other than Varric is authorized to-"

"Wait a minute. The reason you dragged me in here three hours before Hawke's silly office hours is because Feynriel didn't bother to show up?"

"I already told you, he's sick"

"The boy apprenticed under Anders! He should be able to magic the sick away or something"

"Honestly Isabella, this is practically the same sort of thing you do in the afternoon"

"No. In the afternoon two burly Tal Vashoth sit behind me looking menacing while powerful men come into the office and grovel. I _like_ it when people grovel to me, especially when an attractive elf is recording all the clever things I say. What I _don't like_ is sitting in an empty office reading reports and signing documents"

Leandra sighs. "Isabella…"

"I'll be right back"

* * *

It's something she's seen Hawke do countless times: get a mission, round up some friends, go kill some things, get rewarded. It's like the woman has a preternatural affinity for the whole process. Having spent enough time with Hawke over the years, Isabella feels like she can sniff a mission from a mile away, which is why she grabs Aveline and Fenris before heading to the Alienage. Then, thinking better of it, she puts back Fenris and gets Anders.

Before knocking on Feynriel's door, she notifies Merrill, who insists on accompanying them.

She knows she's made the right call when she finds Arianni crying over an unconscious Feynriel. After a few eye-rolls and a trip to Sundermount, they bring the Dalish keeper back to the house to inspect the boy.

"He's a dreamer"

"He's a what now?"

"A dreamer. A mage who can enter the Fade at will, and even kill people within it. You're lagging in your study, Serah Hawke"

Everyone in the room save for Arianni and Marethari uncomfortably shifts from one foot to the other. "*Ahem* Right then. What do we have to do to make him better? Cast a spell? Make a potion?"

"You know it's never as simple as that, Hawke. The only way we can save him is by journeying into the Fade"

"Please tell me you're joking"

"I wish that I were. But if you don't go into the fade and bring Feynriel back now, then he may become an abomination that threatens all of Thedas"

Isabella's expression is one of comic incredulity. "Er…right, yes. Why does it have to be me?"

"If not you, then who? You are the finest mage I have ever met, and we cannot involve the circle without drawing untoward attention to Feynriel"

"And you're sure there's no other way?"

"Well, no," she looks at Arianni, "Would you excuse us dear?" the woman hesitantly departs for the other room. "We can cut him off from the fade right here and now. It is a simple enough procedure, but doing it would render him tranquil"

Isabella gulps at the responsibility of making a decision.

"But it shouldn't come to that. I have seen you in action. It should be no trouble for a mage as accomplished as you"

"Mage…right. Excuse me for a second"

She pulls Aveline, Merrill and Anders into the backroom, almost tripping on her robes on the way. After explaining the situation in a series of urgent whispers, she waits with baited breath for her friends to tell her that they will handle everything.

"You have to do it"

"Are you insane Man-Hands!? I'm not Hawke, I can't handle this kind of thing!"

"No you're not, but this is something we have to do"

"I agree with Aveline," says Anders, "we can't let the boy die just because we're too afraid to try saving him first"

"Merrill, help me out here"

"Isabella, you already know what I'm going to say"

"Balls"

"And I know that you've already decided as well. Come on Isabella, you are so much stronger than you know"

"Ugh. Fine. Everyone stop looking at me like that. We'll do it, just…*sigh* okay"

They file into the room. Isabella nods to Marethari, and the ritual begins.

* * *

The fade is unlike any place Isabella has ever been before, but something about it is familiar. Apparently everyone visits this place in their dreams, but the familiarity is more than that. It's nostalgic. She's calmer than she thought she might be amidst the distorted landscape.

The others are not so resolute. Merrill betrays her to a pride demon for the promise of her people's future. Anders betrays her to a desire demon at the guarantee of the liberation of all mages. Surprisingly, the only other non-mage in her group is the one that helps Isabella face down the last demon. And he is more beguiling and seductive that the last two.

He rears his great smoky head, revealing his true monstrous height. Aveline presses her hand to Isabella's back, keeping her from backing up any more. Her robes are tattered at her legs, a self-inflicted tear to free up her movement. The two warriors look to each other, wondering which one will be tested this time.

"Issaaa-bellllla," the demon bellows in its cavernous drawl, "you have- vannnquissshhhed the other demonnns. You have my thankks"

"I didn't do it for you Torpor"

"Hahahaha. I suppose not. But an interesssting possibility now lies beforrre us"

"What's that?

"You knowww that I intend to take the boy for- myself. If you let me possess him, then I will reward you with that which you mossst desirre"

"No deal, demon," says Aveline unsheathing her sword. "Leave this place"

"I wasn't talking to you, stubborrrn one!" He looks directly at Isabella, his eyes glowing a burning bright white. "Oh pirate queen…this responsibility…you don't want it…you never did, did you?"

"That's true"

"Of course. It was all that old woman. Shee pushed you into this"

"Don't listen to him Isabella!"

"All you wanted was to recover the relic and leeeave Kirkwall. But Hawke killed Castillon, and his ship is yoouurss. Why do you stay?"

"Isabella I don't think I can take him alone. Do not succumb"

Isabella nods. "You said it all, demon. I have my ship and Castillon is dead. You have nothing to offer me"

He laughs, deep and bilious. "Don't I? I can give you Haawke. I'll make sure she leaves the Circle, and then you can have her back, all to yourself. Isn't that what you want?"

"I never wanted her like that"

"Didn't you? Ahhhh, you have an attachment of a different kind." He looms close, the gaps in his crag of a face splitting in what might be a smile. "You want to know what it is she's keeping from you"

That gives her pause. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't be coyyyy. You know she's hiding something from you. The connection you two have? She knew about it all along. You know that. But it's only the tippp of the iceberrrg." He chuckles to himself, "A nautical term, for you"

"What is she hiding from me?"

"Isabella!" cries Aveline, but Isabella ignores her.

"I won't tell you unless we can agree to make a deal"

It's a tense minute that Isabella takes making her decision. Aveline is looking at her in that entreating way she always used to look at Hawke. Gah, it's even worse when it's pointed at her. Meanwhile the demon swirls like smoke through the air, almost seeming to pervade her senses with its odd scent of licorice and ichor.

Hawke has been lying to her. She knows this, absolutely. She isn't stupid. She's noticed Hawke's men shifting about in Lowtown and Darktown when they think she isn't watching, she's noticed that slight hesitation in Hawke's voice when she tells Isabella that everything will be alright. She knows, above all, that much more connects them than looks and an emotional tether.

Hawke has been lying to her. But she will answer for her lies herself, not at the behest of some demon.

"No deal"

Aveline's sigh of relief is insultingly loud, but Isabella is grateful for the sound of the woman's armor shifting as she takes a defensive stance. Unsheathing her daggers, Isabella leaps out of the way of one of Torpor's many tendril-like arms. Aveline charges it head-on, sinking her sword into its mass. It screeches with an energy quite divorced from its previous indolence, and focuses on her. Meanwhile Isabella runs up the creature's back and stabs her daggers into its head, jumping off and rolling at Aveline's side.

"I guess Merril was right about you. You aren't a traitorous wanker after all"

"Shut up and fight," delivers Isabella, smiling all the same.

* * *

**Hawke**

Hawke, meanwhile, is sitting in on a class on arcane magic. She is extremely bored, as everything the senior enchanter is reciting is stuff that Hawke learned as a child. She tries hard to conceal this boredom by leaning forward in her desk and giving the impression of taking notes. But everything about the subject matter is so mundane that her eyes begin to droop and her head begins to nod. She's asleep for five seconds. This is precisely three seconds too long, as a Templar in attendance pokes her to wakefulness with the end of his sheath.

"Wake up Mage Hawke"

"Ow!"

This catches the senior enchanter's attention, who stops his lesson to treat Hawke to an amused smile. "Ms. Hawke, I do hope I wasn't boring you too much with my lecture"

"Not at all sir, it was very interesting"

He smiles again, kindly, the crow's feet at the corner of his eyes pinching amusedly. "Then perhaps you would like to repeat what I just said"

Shit. "Er…we're talking about the mind blast spell right?"

"No," a few other mages chuckle at Hawke's expense. To his credit, the senior enchanter is nothing but sympathetic, "That was a minute ago. We are now discussing the complexities of the arcane shield spell. Care to elucidate?"

"Uhm…" okay, this should be easy, "the arcane shield is a manifestation of the mage's deepest connections with the fade. Rather than shielding themselves with a supply of magic from there, the arcane shield is an actual piece of the fade being channeled by the mage's supply of mana"

This is met with silence.

Thinking that she was off the mark, Hawke goes on. "Uh…the arcane shield is best employed on the outset of a battle. For mages who are only encumbered by armor, a sound protection is essential. In addition, when their mana has run out, they can drop the shield to draw on their reserves"

More silence.

"There is, however, a way to detonate the shield, using up the mana altogether without harming the mage, though afterwards they will be completely vulnerable without any mana to draw on"

And still, silence.

"Oh come on. I must have covered some of what you said"

The senior enchanter takes off his glasses and puts down his lecture notes, moving as if stricken by a sudden weariness. He is, however, smiling very brightly. "Ms. Hawke, I was only talking about simple implementation. Not strategy or theory. Those are reserved for intermediate and advanced classes. The thing about the detonation however, that I didn't know"

"…Oh"

Taking stock of herself, she sits back in her chair. She feels uncharacteristically self-conscious, and for good reason too, as a quick glance up reveals that everyone in the room is looking at her. She shrinks under the scrutiny, almost unconsciously making herself smaller. Attention is the last thing she needs right now. Eventually the senior enchanter, perhaps taking pity on her, resumes his lesson as if nothing has happened. Even so, Hawke can feel a few stares boring into the back of her head.

When the class ends a few young mages gather at her desk, only to be shoed away by an attending Templar. Curiously, he bids that Hawke remain before leaving himself. The senior enchanter shuffles to her desk and places a hand on her shoulder.

"Child," he says, "you do not belong in this class"

Hawke says nothing, feeling wary, and uncharacteristically volatile. "Is that right?"

"You are much too learned to wallow away in lessons that you have long mastered. How would you like to be my assistant instead?"

* * *

It isn't much of a career move, but Hawke can recognize the next rung in the ladder when she sees it. It isn't the most glamorous job, certainly nothing in comparison to running Kirkwall's second-largest criminal enterprise, but being the assistant to a senior enchanter is definitely better than an apprentice mage. There was the small matter of the Harrowing to go through first, as no apprentice is allowed to advance in rank without doing it, but Hawke managed to startle both her mage superiors and her Templar watchdogs by being in and out of the fade in less than five minutes. The senior enchanter who hired her, Tolfdir, was all smiles.

Working for him is only marginally less boring than class, but she manages to keep him extremely happy by revamping his schedule and organizational systems. She even helps him in his research. It's tamer than her own forays into blood magic, but an interesting academic diversion. The only drawback is that Tolfdir is an old lecher.

A lecher, but a harmless lecher.

Poring over a musty tome in Tolfdir's office, she flinches at she feels the old codger's hand groping her butt. She grasps it by the wrist and yanks it up, though the owner of the hand only laughs through the pain.

"You are surprisingly sneaky for a man with a bum leg," she says simply, letting him go. He winces a bit, but smiles.

"I wasn't always a wizened mage, my dear"

"And I told you if you did that again I would hurt you."

He looks her in the eye, bushy eyebrows bristling with glee. He doesn't stop smiling even when she backhands him across the face. "Heeheehee! I haven't had a woman slap me like that in over twenty years!"

"You're a sick fuck Tolfdir"

"Ah, my dear, and you are a spark of new life in these old bones." Hawke moves out of the way as he reviews her notes on the tome. "As always you deliver quality work"

"This much is easy"

"Maybe for you, but you are one of a kind." A sigh, "If only I were only forty years younger…"

"More like one-hundred years, old man"

He laughs. "You wound me, girl." Despite herself Hawke can't help but think that he is charming in his own way. It would be nice if he stopped harassing her, but he's not the type to try anything truly terrible. "Is there anything else on the agenda?"

"Other than a class in two hours, no, you have nothing to worry about"

"Excellent." He settles into his chair, jumping a bit when Hawke delivers a cup of tea into his hands. After he calms down he smiles as the aromatic steam from the cup wafts across his face. "I am the envy of the Senior Enchanters you know"

"Is that right?"

"Indeed. Enchanter Maribel is kicking herself for not scooping you up sooner"

"If I recall correctly, enchanter Maribel was the one who called me a blasphemer for knowing only the first seven lines of the Chant"

"Feh," he says, eyelids drooping, "Seven more than most people know"

Shaking her head, Hawke leaves him to his impromptu nap, and departs to attend to her own matters. As an assistant to a senior enchanter she gets her own quarters which are only marginally less spartan than the apprentice quarters. They are, however, indisputably larger; a boon to a woman surreptitiously hoarding books from the seedier parts of the circle library. She sets down the musty tome she was looking at earlier. She had swiped it when Tolfdir wasn't looking.

Task done, she ventures out of the enchanters' quarters and makes for the hallway that takes her to the more public areas, where junior mages are milling about in between classes. Now is the lunch hour, and rather than request her food be delivered, as is her right as assistant to a senior enchanter, Hawke opts not to lord over her status and eat at the mess hall.

The way is short, but Hawke has to keep her head down to avoid drawing the scrutiny of any of the guards. But even then she can invite suspicion, and the guards are not kind with their searches. They never do anything drastically untoward, but Hawke still has the bruises where one guard gripped her arm too roughly. Just one more day in the Circle of Magi.

It is bearable, but she can certainly see why Anders tried to escape so many times. As for her, she managed by conducting her research and making her plans, always making plans. The circle, just like Kirkwall, is a grand machine with gears and mechanisms ready for exploitation, only her tools in this particular machine are severely limited.

As she makes her way into the bustling mess hall, the students cast her wary and sometimes openly hostile glances. Their behavior would have made sense to her if it was because they suspected her of blood magic. It would have made sense to her if it were because she was a young mage climbing the ranks too quickly. But no, these glares are the glares of the judgmental.

She sighs, feeling like a child during playtime in the old nursery. Her fellow mages go to great pains to make sure she doesn't sit with them. Stupid idiots. If they put this much stock in rumors then they aren't deserving of her companionship anyway. Luckily, she isn't alone.

"May I sit, Idunna?" she asks, keeping her tone politely cordial.

The beautiful woman smiles, "Of course Serah Hawke. You are always welcome at my table." As always she is sitting alone. Arguably Idunna had it worse than her. People spurn her company for having been both a prostitute and a blood-mage, and rather than overtures of friendship she was often confronted by crude propositions, though thankfully not by any Templars. The woman smiles, patting the seat next to her, "Please, won't you join me in social exile?"

Idunna's words aren't meant to be rude, as Hawke had suspected the first time she was invited to her table. Ever since Hawke had rooted out her cult of blood mages Idunna had been languishing in the Circle. At first resentful, she eventually found solace in the arms of religion, and spent every day afterward in self-inflicted repentance. Part of that repentance was being nice to the "sister" of the woman who put her there, and eventually befriending her, though Hawke often suspects that Idunna sees through the ruse.

"You make it sound like a bad thing Idunna. We get this entire table to ourselves, and no-one to bother us. I say exile is a good thing"

"So it doesn't bother you that the whole tower thinks you slept your way into Tolfdir's good graces?"

Hawke's jaw tightens. "They're idiots"

Idunna laughs, but places a comforting hand on Hawke's shoulder nonetheless. "I know dear, I was there for your sermon on the nature of arcana. It's amazing what they'll say when a woman advances quickly. But if you're a man it's a whole different story"

"Exactly! And it's not like anyone places any blame on him either. If they think we're sleeping together, then why am I the only one paying for it?"

Idunna shakes her head. "The tower may be run by a woman, but it is a man's world"

Hawke supposes that if anyone has earned the right to that belief (not that much earning needs to be done) it is Idunna. But in Hawke's eyes it is wholly wrong. It is not a man's world, it is HER world. But Idunna, humble and pious as she is, need not know this.

Hawke nods her head understandingly. "Exactly right, my friend"

* * *

When Tolfdir doesn't make a pass at her that morning, Hawke knows that something is wrong. She voices her concern to the senior enchanter who is uncharacteristically energetic.

"What on earth could you be talking about girl? I am perfectly fine! Thanks to you, I have tapped into previously unforeseen potential in arcane magic"

"You…have?" Where was she for this breakthrough? Probably rummaging around in the library, abusing her privileges, but Tolfdir doesn't need to know that.

"I have! Haven't you noticed the spring in my step? My exuberance?" He exhibits this by shaking his pelvis in disturbing circular motions. "I'm a new man!"

Reaching out with her will, she observes the patterns of magic around him. "I detect no difference, sir"

"Ah, but you aren't looking _inside_ me are you? You have to look _inside"_

"I…would rather not"

"Please Isabella, I insist"

"Urgh. Fine." She extends her will to a much greater degree, using a skill beyond most mages her age. At first it is faint, but the energy in Tolfdir's meridians is pulsing like a second, third and fourth heartbeat, coursing his body with mana. "By the maker Tolfdir…how did you manage this?"

"I was thinking about what you said about the exposition of the arcane shield, about how it is literally made out of the fade"

"You know all this already"

"Yes. This is true. But I did not know one could detonate one's shield. It got me thinking: what other applications could such direct manipulation of fade-space produce? From there I worked out a way to channel the particular aspects of the fade, the wavelengths if you will, and produced them in pinpoint parts of my body"

"That's," GENIUS, "dangerous Tolfdir. How do you do it?"

"Oho, I'll show you my dear girl. All in good time. It's in my notes, come round my office after dinner and I'll give you a peek." He smiles, and in an unusual show of chivalry, he takes her hand and kisses it. "None of this would be possible without you, Isabella. You have my eternal thanks"

Hawke shakes off his fingers, uncomfortable with such an outburst of emotion. "That's fine sir. Happy to help"

He goes running down the hall. "Don't forget, after dinner"

* * *

Something doesn't sit well with Hawke. Tolfdir's new spell is impressive, but there is something vaguely familiar about it. She hasn't seen it's like before, but she's sure that she's read about it somewhere before…or maybe heard about it from Andes? She skims through spell books and tomes on magical theory just in case, working through lunch and dinner with a stack of unread books to either side of her.

When Idunna eventually joins her it is a surprise, as the woman disdains all things magical and can count the number of times she has been to the library on one hand.

"I thought I might find you here"

"I'm flattered you know me so well, but even more so to find out that you're willing to venture into the library to find me"

"Don't be clever," says Idunna taking a seat across from her and eyeing the books. "You have to eat you know. Contrary to what bookworms like you believe, books do not provide sustenance"

Hawke sighs. "I know, but something's been bothering me"

"What?"

Hawke tells her about Tolfdir's new spell, and as she tells the story she curses herself for not keeping a better eye on him. He should have shared what he was doing with her, made sure the procedure was safe. And to cast it on himself without proper testing? Madness!

"So…what? Is he sick? Different?"

"No. Just more energetic, but I swear I've heard about this sort of thing before. I can't put my finger on it"

"Isabella," Idunna's voice is laden with caution, as if afraid someone might overhear, "this new spell sound san awful lot like possession"

"No…it doesn't work that way…" Hawke trails off. Indeed it wasn't possession, and she hadn't detected any spirits in Tolfdir earlier. But having a window into the fade open within his own body? It would be like a shining invitation in the fade saying "possess this man!" Hawke surges to her feet, pushing back her chair and toppling one of the book-stacks. Idunna jumps, startled.

"Isabella?"

No time to answer. Hawke runs out of the library, pushing mage and Templar alike out of her way. She musters her magic, but doesn't dare harness any blood magic. The Templars probably wouldn't appreciate that. If she's lucky though, then none of it will be necessary, and she fervently hopes that is the case as she dashes up the stairs to the senior enchanters' quarters.

Life in the circle has not been kind to her athleticism. She's huffing and puffing as soon as she gets to Tolfdir's room. Opening the door reveals that the place is lit by candles all over the place, and rose petals make a trail to the bed. Hawke momentarily forgets her caution as becomes extremely creeped out. Tolfdir had told her to come here after dinner. It is after dinner. Was he planning a seduction? She shivers, grimacing.

And then she feels his presence. As a maudlin sense of déjà vu washes over her, she steps forward and turns around, quick enough to avoid his groping hand.

Tolfdir smiles, but it is unlike any smiles she has seen him makes before. "Ah, caught me that time did you?"

"What are you doing Tolfdir?"

"Isn't it obvious dear girl? I'm seducing you"

"You're possessed"

"Possessed? Me? I'm a senior enchanter, not some upstart bitch with a penchant for teasing her betters." His snarl is utterly at odds with his usual congeniality.

"It's a desire demon Tolfdir, it's making you say these things. It's manipulating you through that spell you made. If we hurry I can exorcise you before the Templars find out"

The old man is quick, scrambling like a cat to tackle her onto the bed. A mind blast launches him away. The demon has underestimated her, as evidenced by its slowly bringing the old man to his feet in an ominous fashion. It's meant to intimidate, but Hawke takes the time to trap him and it in a crushing prison.

She underestimates the demon's power, and its capability to panic. With a surge of force that can be felt throughout the tower, it breaks the prison. Tolfdir is now recognizably possessed. His eyes glow an unearthly yellow, and purple horns protrude from his forehead and on his shoulders, ripping his robes. But escaping the prison has weakened him.

He launches itself at Hawke once again, and is only barely rebuffed by a stone fist. Tolfdir is beyond saving. She takes a few precious seconds to cast a glyph of repulsion, and waits.

Realizing her tactic, the abomination that was once Tolfdir darts for the door, but the Templars are already there, instantly cutting him down with their swords. It is a pathetically short confrontation. Hawke, meanwhile, plays the role of the victimized young woman. She isn't a good enough actor to summon tears at will (and she has long desensitized herself to self-stabbings and the like), but she does rip her robe at the shoulders a bit while the Templars are subduing Tolfdir. For good measure she assumes a haunted look and crosses her arms over her chest.

The Templars eat it up, waiting for her glyph to run out before cautiously escorting her to be questioned. She tells them that she had no idea what he was researching (which is partly true) and that she was only able to subdue him so easily because she already suspected him of conducting dark experiments. "There are reports that you two were having an affair," they say, and she demurs, saying there's no truth to the rumors. But they obviously suspect her of something, and they ask about the candles and the rose-petals. She makes a show of thinking about it, and tells them that if Tolfdir really did lust after her, then a desire demon would easily be able to play on those feelings, taking him over and turning him into an over-amorous monster.

Which is her version of things.

They obviously still suspect her, but she can see that many of the Templars are sympathetic. They send her to talk to the First Enchanter for counseling. It is unusual that he handles this sort of thing, but as Hawke (or Isabella, as the whole tower knows her) isn't known for having many friends, he grudgingly decides to make an exception.

* * *

Having never really met the man, Hawke is underwhelmed by his small elven stature, but he has the voice and hairline to make up for it. She shouldn't be so quick to judge, her own apprentice is an elf after all. That line of thought gets her thinking about Merrill, and she stops herself before she gets too bummed.

Orsino seems conflicted between offering comfort and asking her about the circumstances of Tolfdir's death.

"You're sure he was possessed?"

"Yes sir, he wasn't acting like himself"

"That might have been any number of things"

"He had also sprouted horns"

"…Ah." That stops his line of inquiry. He awkwardly fumbles in a different direction. "I'm…sorry. I know this must be difficult for you"

"It has been. Thank you senior enchanter"

"I just have to be sure of how it all happened. Then I could salvage some assurance from this whole mess"

"You do not trust what the Templars told you?"

"Of course not! How can I trust them when they crack down on us so harshly? How do I know you are telling the truth and not corroborating with the Templars!?" Seems the Senior Enchanter has anger issues of his own. "I'm sorry, he admits in a lower voice, "I shouldn't be interrogating you"

"That's fine, Senior Enchanter. But everything the Templars said is true"

He is obviously unconvinced, but is resigned to what he suspects are lies. What else is a stressed-out leader to think of a vulnerable young woman? Orsino is wondrously unaware of his own vulnerability.

Hawke decides to take a risk. Before he can offer any more awkward reassurances, she speaks up.

"I wish Tolfdir would have told me what he was planning before casting the spell on himself"

Orsino sighs. "Yes. He had been telling me about a new project, and I foolishly neglected to check his methods"

Hawke hates to besmirch the man's memory. He was kind to her, but stupidity should garner no sympathy. "He would not have been able to wield that power anyway. He was much too careless"

"That is no way to speak of the dead"

Hawke drops her shell-shocked act. "It is the truth. Had he come to me with his notes we might have been able to fine-tune the spell into something less volatile. But he went ahead on his own, driven by lust of all things," she shakes her head as if disappointed, "those notes are probably in the hands of the Templars by now. What a lost opportunity"

Orsino looks at her silently for a long time. "Are you saying you could do better?"

"Absolutely"

He is silent for another moment. Then smiles condescendingly. "I know what you're doing"

"Oh?"

"I've heard about you. There are certain rumors-"

"All unfounded!"

Orsino chuckles. "Not those rumors. I speak of the gossip among the senior enchanters. Yes, even they play such childish games. They tell me you are a genius. And from what I see, you are ambitious as well. You want the spot that Tolfdir has left vacant"

Damn. He's perceptive, or was she too transparent. But that's besides the point. Should she be honest? Pretend otherwise? She doesn't know Orsino well-enough to take that risk, and she has already risked much today.

On the other hand, what's to become of her if she plays it safe? She can hear Carver yelling at her at the back of her mind, but she pays that bit of her conscious no mind.

"Yes. I want the position"

He nods self-satisfyingly. "Why would I give it to you? People will talk. There will be complaints from some of the senior members"

"With all due respect to my fellow mages, they showed their inadequacy when they put stock in rumors over fact. And I am twice the mage that any of those hopefuls are"

"They will think you are sleeping with me to curry favor"

Lightning dances in Hawke's eyes, both literally and figuratively. The lightning then makes its way to her fingertips and pulses from her back in a gaudy show of power. "Give me the position, and those who doubt will soon be silent. I would make a very powerful ally, Orsino, and the way I see it, you have precious few mages in your corner with my capabilities"

Orsino regards the display with a cool detachment, and as the lightning dies away, he drums his fingers against the desk. Whatever he was thinking about doesn't take long, and he eventually smiles. "You might be right, Serah Hawke. There is much we can do for one another"

* * *

There are things to do, plans to alter, and designs to accelerate. Hawke's brain boggles at the opportunities. Barely two days after Tolfdir's death and Orsino has yet to name a replacement. That's fine. These things take time after all, and she has faith that Orsino will do the right thing.

Mostly she keeps away from undue attention. But today she is specifically summoned by a Templar, and that she cannot ignore. Is today the day she is confirmed as senior enchanter?

"You have a visitor"

"That's impossible. Mages aren't allowed visitors until after a year"

"You'll come when you're told, mage," he says harshly, but does not move to make her move. Hawke recognizes him as one of the more zealous knights at the tower. Something must be compelling him not to hurt or even touch her.

It occurs to her that coin is a great motivator.

She steps past the guard, keeping a pace he can scarcely keep up with as they make their way to the visiting chambers. The guard hurries ahead of her to steer her to the right door, and is pushed out of the way as she barrels through it.

Seated at the table, with a glowering Fenris at his shoulder, is Feynriel. He is dressed in finery, as he usually is these days, though his demeanor is noticeably diminished. Hawke stops short of taking a seat opposite him. Clearly he is not who she was expecting.

He smiles pleasantly at her before turning a harsh eye to the Templar. "You may leave now, guard"

Unused to being ordered about by an elf, the guard makes as if to shout back. Fenris stops him with a threatening glower, and while Fenris carries the unthreatening stature of an elf, he has the intimidating presence to back up the threats he makes with his eyes.

The guard leaves without another word.

Alone with her former student, and sometime friend/sometime rival/sometime employee, she takes a seat.

"Isabella Hawke," says Feynriel, drawing a snort from Fenris, "I am here representing the interests of your sister, Isabelle Hawke of the Coalition"

* * *

Author's note: So it's like, been a while huh? My bad. But these chapters are long and I get distracted sometimes with other projects. And life. So much life going on. But here you go, and we'll have more overly long chapters coming up in time.


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